The Winter Writings Challenge 2014
by Emma Lynch
Summary: Hades Lord of the Dead has once again challenged us to a month long adventure of writing. Each day, for the month of December, will entail a new story based on exchanged prompts.
1. Chapter 1

**Day Four: Ceremony - prompt by Domina Temporis**

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><p>"<em>Ceremony. When we`ve lost that, we`ve lost everything, and we are wandering in the dark, like chickens or lambs, waiting for the eagles."<em>

_(Rick Bass, The Sky, The Stars, The Wilderness)_

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><p>The taller man staggers backwards, crashing into the glass cabinet, such is the force of the blow. Crockery shakes and clatters, clinking dangerously against glassware as the whole edifice trembles. He steadies himself as his smaller, stockier assailant advances. The look in his eye exhibits a resolute and unswerving purpose which does not point towards a peaceful conclusion.<p>

Rough, calloused hands push hard against a throat so delicate and exposed; brows drawn down, a hard line of a mouth, pressing against those shark like teeth – there is no further retreat for him, and no luxury of oxygen to expand his failing lungs. No speech, no sound, just his own heartbeat in his own head – faltering, hitching, slowing. The hands tighten again – a tiny increment about his neck, and the darkness is calm, soothing, welcoming …

**X**

Sherlock Holmes opens his eyes and instantly recognises the sounds that have woken him. The creak on the stair, the opening door, the comforting clatter of china and silverware, the murmur of voices. He glances at his pocket watch on his nightstand – almost seven, and a comfort that the ritual of the morning had already begun. The morning is cool; the maid would have been up laying fires in 221 Baker Street since six, but this December had been particularly inclement, and the building needed time to warm through. He had created an algorithm to measure and observe the varied heating times of the house, depending on such variables as outside temperature and Mrs Hudson`s forever changing brand of coal, but results had, so far, proved inconclusive. More data was needed, since he was obviously unable to make bricks without clay.

Holmes wrapped himself in his red dressing gown (by far his warmest, and in no way `festive`, as John Watson was so pleased to observe, the previous morning) and entered the sitting room.

"Tea, Holmes?"

"Naturally, Watson."

"Darjeeling or Lapsang Souchong?"

Holmes sits at the table, immediately reaching for the newspaper held out by Mrs Hudson.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. What do your instincts tell you, Watson, as to my choice of leaf?"

"Always the Darjeeling before eleven, as you tell me most mornings."

"And yet, here you are, requiring yet more affirmation."

"Which you are more than happy to give."

The sounds of tea pouring, the clink of stirring; pot, cup, saucer, spoon – a ballet of beverage making in Baker Street.

"Good morning, Watson."

"Good morning, Holmes."

Rustling of newspapers take precedence over the next few minutes, as the girl finishes laying the fire in the grate ("another new coal merchant, Mrs Hudson? Whatever happened to brand loyalty?") and Martha Hudson serves porridge – sugar for John Watson, and salt for Sherlock Holmes. Such were their predilections, and she knew better than to question, or extrapolate new choices from them.

Then, as clockwork, both men fold and place their papers to one side (after Holmes has derided the lack of ingenuity currently displayed by the criminal classes) and address their porridge without further speech.

"You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," he comments, after bowls are pushed away and cleared and replaced with eggs and bacon (two rashers each, and a side serving of black pudding on Wednesdays, after the butcher`s boy has called).

"So you like to tell me," smiles the good doctor, as is his wont.

Gentle chink-chink of knives, forks and fine Royal Doulton china, until plates are cleared and Watson rises to attend to the fire.

"Half past seven," comments Holmes, addressing his companion from the region of the wall thermometer, "and still three degrees lower than the same time yesterday … I must speak to Mrs Hudson about Jane – "

"Hardly the girl`s fault, Holmes – and what are three degrees, after all?"

The only consulting detective in the world frowns at his friend, but it is only half-hearted.

"And you a doctor," he says.

Letters arrive within the next five minutes – Billy the Page is so frequently rewarded by Sherlock Holmes, that his loyalty and time-keeping is unassailable. Watson has lost count of the times his flat-mate has lambasted the unreliability of communication in their city – how many times had a man`s life depended on the telegram arriving on time, or the parcel being sent to the correct address? Such regular complaining he now secretly dubbed `_Holmes`s morning cavil_`- but perhaps some things were better not shared.

"Dull … tedious … derivative … child`s play – oh dear, Watson, it seems we are doomed to another day of retrieving lead pencils and comforting thwarted lovers!"

And John Watson shakes his head, as he always does, and suggests a morning pipe, as they always do.

Almost eight o`clock, and Sherlock Holmes is a flurry of red (not festive) dressing gown – rootling through old newspapers, the previous day`s post and a dozen or so files containing clippings and collations of data.

"Mrs Hudson, you have clearly been tidying up!"

"Every day, Mr Holmes, I tell you I wouldn't go near your things – the very idea!" And John Watson observes, and he does deduce, and he sensibly keeps his thoughts on his companion`s filing systems to himself. He had learnt much from his days living with Sherlock Holmes.

Just as clockwork, then, the day is no older than half past eight when Holmes stops his searching/complaining/smoking and stands. As ever, Watson takes his cue and settles away his pipe and paper for another time. Both repair to their rooms and replace dressing gowns with jackets, for they know that the time is nigh –

The hurried footsteps, growing louder along the street, the pause on the stoop, the hesitation before the bell is pulled, the weak retort, followed by a firmer, more resolute pull –

A visitor.

A client.

And Mrs Hudson will appear (as she does) at the doorway, with perhaps a card, or a badge and an announcement of a very familiar kind:

"There`s a gentleman at the door, Mr Holmes – there`s been a brutal murder and he needs your help."

And Sherlock Holmes is utterly immune to her customary _`tut`_ of disapproval at his gleeful expression as she is sent downstairs to show up aforementioned unfortunate gentleman.

"A murder! Oh, Watson, the day is looking up! How I abhor the dull routine of existence. I so crave the mental stimulation!"

And Dr John Watson smiles internally, for he knows the value of their `dull routine`, their morning ritual, their _ceremony_; for what good is a constant burning flame of excitement without the relief of the calming darkness? The proper pleasure of the ritual allows the drama to shine.

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><p><strong>AN: I am, sadly, late to the party, but Hades has kindly let me join in. (Thanks to Ennui Enigma and Mrs Pencil for the encouragement). This is my first attempt, so I truly hope it makes sense and has some bearing to the prompt.**

**Thanks.**

**Emma**


	2. Mrs Hudson saves the day

**Day Five : Mrs Hudson Saves the Day (Prompt by Ennui Enigma)**

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><p>"<em>All<em>_ of us, at certain moments of our lives, need to take advice and to receive help from other people."_

_(Alexis Carrel)_

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><p>The chronicling of the many cases appointed to my friend, Sherlock Holmes, has occupied my time most productively over the many years we have worked and lived together. The variety and astonishing diversity of the puzzles, conundrums and occasionally shocking problems that came his way, always ensured my eagerness to record them for future generations to explore. However, there were occasional examples of his work that required that a slightly more discreet and delicate touch be employed, due to their possibly incriminating nature. The following case has required an element of such diplomacy, and for that, I make no apologies. It is only now, owing to a recent death that I am able to share such a case – one I feel illustrates a valuable lesson in the idea of assistance occasionally coming from the most unexpected quarter.<p>

**X**

Mrs Hudson was truly one of the most remarkably forbearing landladies that a tenant would ever have been privileged to happen upon. Although rewarded most generously in a financial fashion by her remarkable tenant, she often found herself to be most inconvenienced by the constant air of violence, danger and good, old-fashioned chaos that surrounded him. Although she never took word against him in my presence, I would truly assign him to have been the very worst tenant in London, such were his idiosyncrasies.

~~x~~

"Mr Holmes, you are leaving – "

"Excellent deduction Mrs Hudson – come Watson, a cab will not wait for your laborious hat retrieval – an heiress`s legacy hangs in the balance!"

"But you haven't yet told me at what time you will be dining! I have a brace of grouse and a dozen good oysters from the fishmonger."

"Around half past seven – "

"Very good."

" – the day after tomorrow! Come, Watson, no cloaking against the elements should ever take so long!"

~~x~~

"Mr Holmes, the sweep has left and he`s not coming back!"

"Remarkably swift work; a master of his craft I am pleased to note."

"He`s gone _without_ sweeping the chimney, Mr Holmes, on account of you getting him arrested last year, for stealing that gentleman`s fiddle."

"Ah, I did detect a familiarity about the left wrist and simian gait. His incarceration was more than deserved, Mrs Hudson – he took a 1753 Stradivarius of the finest quality from Mr Jacobson, lead violin in the London Philharmonic – a _fiddle_, indeed!"

"That`s all very well, Sir, but my chimneys remain un-swept and it`s the third time this year this has happened."

"Hardly my fault the criminal classes are finding amelioration in adopting a sweep`s career path; further research is clearly needed on your behalf, Mrs Hudson."

~~x~~

"Oh, Mrs Holmes, my poor walls will not take much more of this indoor shooting! Think of the neighbours! Think of my plasterwork!"

"My mind rebels at stagnation, Mrs Hudson; and better your plasterwork suffers an assault than either the criminal classes or my central nervous system."

"Well, I just wish you would be in consideration of _my_ nervous system, on occasion."

"Pah! The human condition does nought but still my wits."

Thus, Holmes frequently brought our dear landlady to the end of her own wits by method of his unorthodoxy; however, even the great Sherlock Holmes was not always immune to the _occasional_ astonishing event.

**X**

Something had breached the edges of my consciousness in the pitch blackness of the winter night, but my soldier brain insisted that I be still until recognition was achieved. Lying motionless, I allowed my opened eyes to adjust to the room, only illuminated by the thin shaft of gaslight from the lamp-post outside my window. It was obviously after five in the morning, since the lamp lighters had been along Baker Street to illuminate us gently out of the December gloom. My heart, already agitated began a more violent rhythm as I saw the curtain tremble and the sash slide silently upwards. Pale fingertips could clearly be seen breaching the gap between window and frame, and I felt blindly beneath my pillow for my Browning, before remembering Holmes had requested it the evening before as he left the house. I was alone, unarmed and in the most vulnerable of situations as an assailant entered my bedroom.

A bizarre, adrenalin resistant languor had overcome my constitution as the sash rose further and a leather booted foot and black trousered leg inserted themselves, followed by another arm, then the torso and eventual face of –

_Sherlock Holmes_ – cat-burglar and disregarder of the boundaries set by friends and gentlefolk.

"Holmes! For God`s sake, what are you doing?!"

Languor suddenly dissipated, I sat upright, eyes widened in shock and general outrage, which was only tempered by my witnessing his filthy demeanour, dishevelled clothing and air of exhaustion. I sat him in my chair, wrapped a blanket around him and lit the gas to survey him for injury. He seemed in ill-humour, and affected an almost defeated air, which did not sit well with me.

"It is hopeless, Watson. Although I managed, after many a filthy and inconvenient diversion, to escape his dogs, I fear that Mr Manderson thwarts me at every turn."

Holmes had recently been engaged by a titled Lady of high birth and grand family to retrieve some innocent, yet foolishly written letters, which were being used to extort funds from her. The blackmailer, a Mr Christopher Manderson, was an odious and morally corrupt individual, who had imbued my friend with a passionate repellence, bordering on obsession. Holmes had visited Manderson at his home in a legitimate fashion to act on behalf of his client, only to leave amid taunts and arrogant derision. Lestrade had invoked the wrath of Sherlock Holmes upon informing him that evidence was all, and Manderson had been more that careful to ensure that none was in existence. Clearly, Holmes` latest venture had gone beyond the remit of the law and only underlined the desperate disgust this case had provoked.

"I have searched high and low for those letters; he must never allow them to leave his sight or his person," he breathed, still panting slightly from the chase. "There are certain crimes, Watson, which the law cannot touch, and therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge."

I stood back, satisfied he had sustained no injury, but concerned at the vehemence in his words.

"No man is above the law, Holmes. You have done all you can. The man has been meticulous, and I fear her Ladyship will need to fall at the feet of her family`s good will in this matter. There is nothing more you can do."

Sherlock Holmes stands, suddenly, losing both the blanket and any residual signs of exhaustion and defeat.

"There is always something," he rejoined, resolutely.

**X**

And so it came to pass that that very same day saw a most unwelcome visitor arrive at Baker Street.

"A Mr Christopher Manderson to see you, Mr Holmes." Mrs Hudson stood at the door of our quarters, wearing her baking apron. "Says he`d like to speak with you here, since you missed each other last night."

Holmes was already standing, his features set and hard, his eyes glinting like gimlets.

"Oh, do show him up, Mrs Hudson," he motioned towards the windows. "The fog is up and we wouldn't want him getting chilled out on the street."

I confess to feeling a chill of my own at my friend`s fixed and icy disposition, and only had time to whisper a word of warning regarding us not being above the law. He shook it off, just as Manderson shook the snow from his cape as he entered the room, flanked by our landlady.

"Shall I take your hat and coat, sir?"

"Indeed no, my dear lady." As he held onto his headgear, his smile was insidious; the very antithesis of the charm he attempted to project. "I shall not be staying long."

**X**

"You must feel quite the foolish one, Mr Sherlock Holmes, to be bested by someone you hold in such low regard. You have no hold upon me, and the lady in question must realise that power and privilege do not always release you from inconvenient situations. She will pay, and she will pay in full. Should you bother me again, I shall be providing the constabulary at Scotland Yard with a very real selection of evidence which outline your unorthodox visit to my home last night. It may be you that finds himself at the hands of the magistrate, Mr Holmes."

My friend held his counsel, standing against our mantel and smoking a cigarette. No shake or crack in his armour was visible, but I knew Manderson`s words would have been utterly devastating in their entirety.

"You have come here, then, to put me in my place?"

"What other reason could I have, Sherlock? You have been a thorn in my side overlong; perhaps this is where you realise your true place in the pecking order. Stay away, my friend, or you will suffer, alongside your client."

"Mrs Hudson will now see you out."

"Indeed, good evening Mr Holmes, I am so pleased we are clear. We shall not meet again, therefore I will take this opportunity to wish you Season`s greetings."

"I am sure you will understand that I am unable to reciprocate, good day, sir."

Holmes and I followed our most unwelcome visitor to the top of the stairs as our good lady showed him out. At the foot of the stairs, however Manderson affected to lose his balance a little, perhaps slipping on the snow he brought into our door that foggy December evening, and dropping his hat and cane as he fell against our coat rack. Unfortunately, perhaps, he quickly adjusted his stance and was handed his lost implements by Mrs Hudson. A slight embarrassment for him, perhaps, but nowhere near enough to salve the injured countenance of my friend.

"I fear this will not be one of your more triumphant chronicles regarding my career, Watson," he noted, dispiritedly lighting another cigarette. "That creature is one of the few men I have ever truly wished to inflict injury upon. His lack of respect for humanity and utterly loathsome disregard for goodness in others brings out the absolute worst in me. Just being in his presence affects me with a besmirched and feculent sensitivity."

I nodded in agreement, since I too felt the air heavy with an oppressive sense of evil.

We were both is such low and dismal spirits that a short rap upon the door succeeded in shocking me.

"Mrs Hudson, can we be of service?" I offered, since Holmes was staring out of the window, with little regard for his surroundings.

"Mr Manderson," she began, "I`m afraid we will have to send word, Dr Watson."

"How so?"

"After he slipped in the hall, I returned his hat along with his stick, but I offered him the wrong one."

"I beg your pardon?"

I suddenly became aware that Sherlock Holmes had abandoned his window-side vigil and was standing directly behind our landlady.

"Well, it is all my fault, Doctor. You see, I`ve been baking my figgy pudding, and I was a little distracted, since my suet wasn't quite right … it seems, sir, I gave him the wrong hat – "

From behind her back, she produced a Bowler, very similar to my own.

"I know your hat, Dr Watson, since it has a little dint just next to the band, here. In the confusion (and me thinking too much about my suet), I gave Mr Manderson your hat, and this one must be his – "

Within the merest hairs-breadth, Sherlock Holmes had grasped the hat from her hand and turned it up, his long fingers running inside its brim and lining. As he pulled out three several folded pieces of white, fine paper covered in writing, his countenance had altered beyond all recognition.

"Mrs Hudson, I shall be furnishing you with half a dozen sixpences for your figgy pudding this year! Watson, fetch the brandy and pour three glasses, since our wonderful and long-suffering landlady has managed to save the day; bravo, and a heartfelt Season`s greetings to us all!"

**THE END**

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><p><strong>AN: good old Mrs Hudson! This was a brilliant prompt because I do love her.**

**Apologies for blatant thievery of the Charles Augustus Milverton plotline, but it is one of the best! :)**

**Thank you to all who have welcomed and taken time to read/review my stories - lovely encouragement. :)**


	3. The Ghosts of Christmas

**Day 6 Prompt: Holmes is visited by ghosts of Christmas past, present and future – Poseidon, God of the Seas**

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><p><strong>London<strong>

**May 1894**

I have returned to London, and have determined to despise my new universe in its entirety. So many days and nights to dismantle the web of an arachnid so foul and pervasive, that my world revolved around his annihilation. Moriarty could have snuffed the candle of my life, as he had promised, but fate had deemed differently. An earnest struggle atop a shuddering wall of water, and only my knowledge of Baritsu and his blind side allowed me to walk away, the victor, the survivor … alive.

From Meiringen (and the _Englischer Hof_) to Florence, Tibet, Norway (_good day, Mr Sigerson_), Persia and Khartoum; ending in coal tar in Montpelier. My European tour bore little resemblance to any aristocratic counterparts, but ensured that Moriarty`s web was desolated, terminated, annihilated. England was pardoned, but I was besmirched.

It is difficult to elucidate, dear reader (and my loyal friend would wish a tender and explanatory tale to welcome back the world`s only consulting detective), but a firm and insoluble melancholy determined upon me as I returned to Baker Street, and I was ill-equipped to staunch its advance.

**X**

"Is it convenient to call, Mrs Hudson? Mr Holmes has not seen fit to visit the telegraph office, nor send an Irregular with a message. I would assume there to be a clamour for his services – London has suffered in his absence."

"Apologies, Doctor Watson. Mr Holmes is languishing in his rooms (you may affect a sad familiarity with his more depressive moods) and wishes to see no-one. He asked me to offer you his apologies, and, may I add, condolences, for your loss."

"I see. Thank you, Mrs Hudson. I am in accordance that our mutual acquaintance must be left to himself at times like these. I thank you for your solicitude and will call again tomorrow."

**X**

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death … yes, I am in accordance, but what must come of this? Dear reader, my dictate is announced now. Days and days of introspection, avoidance and eventual realisation – I did not die when pushed from the Reichenbach Falls by James Moriarty – but must perish now, instead. People of the world have nothing to offer up to me; I exist only for _the science_. There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact, and the facts insist that people and their myriad problems are nothing but distraction and obstruction; therefore, there can be nought but isolation and seclusion for this man.

I hereby declare that I, Sherlock Holmes, decry the populous, the pitiful request, the jarring ring upon the bell, the character who has lost all grip upon his faculties and his future. From henceforth, I care only for the science; the logic, the analysis and the work. Purity and rectitude cannot be sullied by the sentiment of humanity. The grit upon the lens only ensures the cataloguing of inconsistency. My chronicler, John Watson may remonstrate and adopt his mawkish and pawky humour to dissect my determination, but I must remain constant.

The work is all. Humanity need not apply.

**X**

**December 1894**

Mrs Hudson bustles away, but I barely sense her air of disapproval. Certainly it has been several hours since she left a supper of cold mutton and port at my side, but such is my distraction at present, it remained untouched until its retrieval. I may, at some juncture, point out the futility of her efforts, but I deduce her sister is ill again, therefore I will postpone. The hour is late, and as the clock chimes twelve, I lie back in my chair, turning off my Bunsen and observing my cooling distillation. This latest variable adjustment must surely affect a more predictable result for my brick dust compound. This particular batch has proved most troublesome, even allowing for the most focused of attentions.

A sharp rap upon my door serves to both startle and alert me. A midnight caller? No hesitation upon the stoop nor ring of the bell as prelude to such an intrusion, yet here I am – _visited_. Watson still lives in the marital home he shared with his wife until her untimely demise, and at this moment I feel his absence most keenly. Did Mrs Hudson allow entrance and yet no _announcement _of my visitor? I allow that procrastination serves very little purpose and fasten my determination upon the door handle, wrenching it wide open to face my uncertainty …

"Good evening Mr Holmes," murmurs the deceased Professor James Moriarty, standing _almost corporeal_ in my doorway. "I bring you news – for I attempted to rid you of your life, and now I wish to give it back."

**X**

In death, as in life, I will not tremble and waver at the sight of this creature. Truly, he now affects a slight translucence and more obsequious air that negates all sense of menace and danger. He appears as he did at our last meeting at the top of the Reichenbach Falls, but his manner could not be more different.

"We parted badly and I have eternity to right my wrongs, beginning here, tonight."

"I understand little of your purpose, spirit. I am in need of no wrongs being righted, particularly by your good self."

"Ah," replies Moriarty`s ghost, "that is fortuitous, since it will not be myself who helps you this night. I will send three spirits to guide you and you must listen wisely to their words, Holmes, for you are in great danger."

"I could easily disperse you with a lighted candle, Professor – you are but a whisper of my imagination. I am in no danger, I assure you."

"When the clock strikes next, your first spirit will appear. Take heed, for the danger comes from within your heart and brings great loss."

I close my eyes (I am so very fatigued) and shake my head. As they open again, the spirit is gone and a resoundingly tinny chime can be heard from the hall clock.

Midnight.

I take one step towards the door again, my hand upon its handle to open it, as I know I must. My heart leaps and dances within my chest and I bite down such ridiculous fancies, since this dream, although vivid, should not be allowed such a hold upon my physical self.

My brother Mycroft stands before me now, as he was at the age of fifteen years. He wears the tails and stiff collar of an Eton boy and carries his top hat beneath his arm. Such a lucid and eloquent representation reminds me to congratulate my _amygdala_ (thought by Descartes to be the seat of the soul) for such fine imaginings. Young Mycroft holds out his hand to me.

"Come with me, Sherlock, you need to see your past once more."

And as I see little reason not to, I reach out and I take it.

**X**

I open my eyes again and we are standing in a courtyard that I instantly recognise as Ashdown House, my Prep school in East Sussex. The tall oak in its centre that would shade us from sun and shelter us from the less pleasing elements tells me it is late spring and a gaggle of boys are scattered beneath its ancient branches, and one of them is my eight year old self.

"Closer," says spirit Mycroft, "they cannot see us."

" – Holmes, stop that idiocy! No-one wants to listen to your wild and silly fancies. Trevor says you know things, but I know you just make up stories!"

"You all need to listen to me – I have reason to believe that Ross is in danger – "

"Danger! Hah! Holmes thinks he`s an adventurer! A pirate, or some such! Ross is most likely being kept late after prep – his cursive script is `loathsome` according to Mr Tierney."

I affect a sense of pride (even within my own dream) at my child-like determination. Suddenly we are walking, with Mr Tierney and a constable towards a lonely, abandoned cottage situated within a mile of the school. Boys would often steal away, climbing over the inadequate gate to play games and make adventure in its dilapidated rooms and crumbling walls. Mr Tierney points towards a small cylindrical arrangement of stones within the overgrown jungle of a garden and the constable and he run towards it, peering down into its depths and shouting. A rope is slung across the back of another man arriving upon the scene whom I recognise as Turner, the groundsman at Ashdown. The three unravel and throw down a length rope; all the time shouting down the well:

"Ross! Ronald Ross! Lie still, we are here! You are safe now, we have you, we have you!"

I turn to the young embodiment of my elder brother and he speaks with gravity and meaning:

"Sherlock, your observations and deductions, even at this tender age, saved the life of this unfortunate boy. Once found, he made a full recovery, joining the British army in India as a doctor. He went on to discover that the parasites causing malaria were transmitted by mosquitos, which contributed to a cure for malaria. You saving his life meant many, many thousands of lives have been saved since."

"Surely, he would have been discovered, even without my insistence."

"He was near to death from dehydration and a broken leg when found. You fought for him, Sherlock, since you knew you were right. Languishing in your room with a microscope would not have been sufficient."

"I fear the problems of the masses can no longer be of my concern, Mycroft. The world`s enormity; its myriad of hopeless and constant failings are too onerous for one man to make a difference."

"One man _can_ make a difference, Sherlock. Await the next spirit at the next chime. You shall see, and you shall observe, but what can you deduce of your own heart?"

**X**

Oh, a heartily pleasing sight for my own eyes, since the fecundity of my (clearly, spiralling) imagination has brought for the spirit of another ex-army doctor who has both lifted and improved my spirits upon many a bleak winter`s night –

John Watson.

"Holmes, I grieve for your current depressive state. Your family, associates, Mrs Hudson and myself – we see a shadow of the man who went to Meiringen to end a criminal`s reign of terror. We fear you have lost your energy, your strength and, forgive me, your humanity. You were the man who marvelled at the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes of the world we inhabit. You would determine that the wonderful chains of events of happenings upon this planet would work through generations, and lead to the most outre results, which would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable."

I hold out my hand. "You had better show me," I say.

It is a bleak, midwinter day (very much like the present) which has hardly grown light. Orange flames from lamp posts are dimmed into an ethereal glow behind thick swathes of fog, which hangs heavy and nascent in the air. All feels oppressive and chilled with gloom as the spirit of my greatest friend shows me two Scotland Yarders, strolling through the dark December streets.

"It is nothing more than a feeling in my gut," decides Inspector Gregson, adjusting his muffler in vain attempt to thwart the cold. "Evidence is thin upon the ground – "

"Thin? Try non-existent, old fellow," interjects Inspector Lestrade (the least offensive of the Yarders, in my humble opinion). "No disturbance was found near the window, nor near the body, and yet we know Chadderton did it!"

"His motive is not enough in itself, particularly when his alibi cannot be breached."

I know this case. Days earlier, Lestrade had visited my rooms with the story of Isiah Chadderton and his poor, murdered neighbour in the flat above. I had Mrs Hudson send the policeman on his way, but not before he pushed a card envelope into her hands, outlining the facts of the case. Curiosity insisted I cast my eye across them, but I swiftly recanted my interest in favour of my monograph on the importance of the locality of pollens, and the envelope was pushed aside, forgotten. I swiftly venture to retrieve it now, from the recesses of my brain attic.

I turn to Watson, eyes wide in remembrance.

"The vents between the rooms! Poison, much in the manner of Dr Grimesby Roylott," I announce.

"Ah, yes, the Speckled Band," he concurs.

Even in spirit form, Watson`s sensationalist nature, in equal measure, serves to both amuse and appal.

"Indeed, it was as clear as day, and I fancied even those incumbents of Scotland Yard would arrive at this very same conclusion."

"It strikes one that they have not, Holmes."

As I watch the two walk by my invisible form, I am visited by the chilling realisation that my ex-flatmate and companion is, most certainly, correct.

"How many undetected murders must continue apace without your unique methods of consultation and assistance, Holmes? The police do handle the business of criminality with their usual acumen, but it is only you, old fellow, with your love of the unconventional and your eye for the obscure that can open their minds to other, less obvious solutions."

"This murderer will go free."

"There is nothing more sure, Holmes."

"Then, it appears there are two guilty parties at large this night." I sigh and close my eyes, awaiting my final visitation of the seemingly endless night.

**X**

My sitting room door stands open to a form of such familiarity (in both time and place) that I hesitate momentarily as to whether it is spirit or flesh. It is not until Mrs Hudson, my most tolerant of landladies, holds out her hand to me that I am sure. One more visit is required, and I foretell, from her grave demeanour, that this final showing will not be a pleasant one.

We stand in the bleakest of graveyards on the bleakest of days. Once again, it is Midwinter, and an ice-laden wind frets at the sparse yet wiry grasses that have populated this final resting place. Indeed, the type of grass and proliferation of seagulls about the stone angels, urns and mausoleums tell me we are near the coast. The dream is so vivid, a salty taint affects my lips and nose – salt and seaweed, borne on the breeze. Mrs Hudson, bundled against the cold in grey rags and layers of black veil speaks no words, but merely points to a headstone, distinctly newer than the others, but already burnished by the stinging salt and wind.

_Here lies the body of John H Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers_

_Born 1852, died 1898_

_He joins his beloved Mary in eternal peace_

_Soldier, doctor, husband, friend_

_May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest_

I can barely wrench the words from my stubborn throat, so harshly it aches.

"What happened here, kind spirit? I beg of you to tell me; I need you to furnish me with the truth."

"He lost his Mary, and he lost you, Mr Holmes. He lost you twice. Doctor Watson was such a good, honest, kindly man. He was ill-equipped to deal with such voids in his life. When you returned from being away for so long, he needed you, sir; your cases to distract a grieving man, your energy, your vitality, the air of adventure that surrounds you – and, of course, your friendship. Without any of that, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson just found he had no more interest in the world and became lost, wasted and unable to fight the final illness that took him."

I do not speak, for I am unable.

"Mr Holmes, no man is an island, entire unto himself. Look what the world can be without your place in it. You must be a detective for the brainwork, the analysis, the puzzling and the deduction, but you must become part of humanity to do this. You must run alongside the wolves to catch your prey, not work in isolation in a lonely room, all shut away. Humanity is not lost, it just becomes bereft and neglected on occasion. It is your duty to make it strong again – this is your gift, to the world, and these words are my gift to you. Heed them, and all the words and deeds you have witnessed tonight – "

"Spirit – " my voice trembles and the stinging of my eyes has little to do with a salty wind, "spirit, can we change this? Is there hope?"

And my spirit landlady lifts her heavy black veil and I glimpse the shadow of a smile pass over her face.

"There is always hope," she says.

**X**

I awake, lain across my chaise longue to a bright shaft of sunlight through open curtains and a ratt-a-tatt of pebbles at assaulting my window. As I fling up the sash, I note the December morning sky is cornflower blue and the winter sun high and resplendent in the sky. The night`s happenings have been long, arduous and astonishingly vivid, yet, for the first time since my return, I feel strangely at peace.

Below my window, Wiggins of the Baker Street Irregulars looks up at me, shading his eyes.

"Mr Holmes! Good to see ya! Me and the boys were wondering if you don't have any work for us this week? We ain`t had cause to upset you, sir? Things have been thin on the ground this winter!"

"What year is this, Wiggins? What month?"

"What`s that, sir? Are you feelin` alright? It`s December, ain`t it nearly Christmas, 1894?"

Internally, I say a little pray to any deity who would care to listen. It isn't too late to right some wrongs – _there is always hope_.

"Wiggins, I have been dreadfully remiss in recent months, which I fully intend to rectify forthwith." I delve into my pocket and throw several coins onto the snowy ground at his feet. They land with a muffled `whump` and he scrabbles for them.

"Go immediately and furnish Mrs Hudson with a plump goose and the finest bottle of claret you can find. From thence, rush across to Doctor Watson`s quarters and rouse him this fine morning – he cannot wish to lie a-bed on a day such as this! Tell him I wish to see him here, for supper at eight sharp, and to come if convenient."

"Certainly, Mr Holmes, sir, and if it ain`t convenient?"

I smile, for my heart is a light as the single snowflake floating past my face, like an angel`s feather.

"Tell him to come all the same," I say.

**The End**

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><p><strong>AN: apologies (especially to Poseidon) since this is a day late - too much happening yesterday! I have made it extra long to make up for it, and will attempt to address today`s prompt if I possibly can (it may be very short!)**

**Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews/encouragement/information coming my way - this challenge is just so brilliant!**

**EL**


	4. Mrs Hudson has a guest for tea

**Day 7 – Mrs Hudson invites a canon member for tea – who is it? - from SheWhoScrawls**

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><p><span>Moriar-tea?<span>

Mrs Martha Hudson has lived through many very real and legitimate conflicts during her time on earth. A greater part of the nineteenth century had been taken up with the dogs of war besetting upon some poor, unfortunate souls in some wide-flung part of our Empire, and beyond. She had lost uncles, cousins and a half-brother through the savage vagaries of man taking up arms against his fellows, and it never really made much sense to her. The Ottoman-Persian campaigns of her youth, the terrible and recurring insurgencies in New Zealand (so very far away, but a taker of British menfolk all the same), the Burmese conflict, and the terrible atrocities perpetuated in Crimea; more ruinous and catastrophic loss which somehow had to be borne. It would, indeed, be safe to say that Martha Hudson was no supporter of such remote and desolate struggles. Whoever laid their flag, whoever took that strip of land or range of mountains – the cost was always the same, to both sides.

Therefore, on that frosty December morning, Mrs Hudson had thoroughly and decidedly pushed the elements of both combat and of struggle to the very furthest reaches of her mind. Today was not about a tussle or a breach of trust, it was about seeing a problem from another side, finding an equitable solution without resorting to hurt and anger; it was about healing.

She laid the tea tray out with the care afforded to all of her guests, tenants included. Mr Holmes and the good doctor were well educated and highly born gentlemen who found solace in a well-arranged tea service and beautifully polished silverware. She had selected her best Wedgewood service (a wedding gift for herself and the late Mr Hudson from a very well-connected maiden aunt, she recalled, fondly) which was fashioned from the most delicate bone china – holding it up to the light afforded a translucent warmth to its dainty patina. She set the golden leaf finished tea pot slightly off-centre to the tray; it was quite the proud peacock of her arrangement and didn't need to attract every jot of attention – the two cups (sitting atop creamy saucers akin to dancer`s skirts) deserved their fair share of admiration also. She would take the pansied cup, whilst her guest might prefer the apple blossom.

Two twisted-necked tiny teaspoons were carefully laid at contrasting angles across saucers, and her fluted sugar bowl was adroitly paired with a truly adorable set of sugar tongs. Martha had teased her youngest niece upon many occasion, that the fairy folk would weep and beg to borrow her beautiful tongs for their own beverages, such were their delicacy. Round bellied milk jug, embellished with roses (Ena Harkness, the deepest shade of velvety red) and a tea plate (snowdrops), the adornment of which, was causing her some concern. Which biscuits would be appropriate for a guest of this nature? A man of good birth and excellent education; a man who had achieved plaudits and accolades for his contributions to the sphere of learning he so excelled in; a man with such a finely tuned gift of observation that it could (though she dared not admit in spoken word) rival that of her own tenant. Bath Olivers, perhaps? Or a well turned ginger snap? Mrs Hudson gave a nervous little smile as she recalled a recent batch of Empire biscuits stored at the back of her pantry; yes, that would do – fitting, even.

After laying the crocheted beaded doily atop the milk, Mrs Hudson carried her most scrupulously prepared of tea trays into her sitting room, casting a critical eye over plumpness of cushions and arrangements of antimacassars. A crackling fire licked at the gleamingly blackened grate and Mrs Hudson allowed herself a tiny nod of appreciation as to the shine on her brasses and glint on her mirror and picture frames.

This would do. This should be acceptable. And, as she lowered the tray, a tingle of anticipation nipped at her heart when she heard the bell jangle (just the once).

He was here.

**X**

Oh, she had heard such dark rumours about him – Mr Holmes had a dramatic turn of phrase of his very own, and had lavished much upon the stooped, solemn shoulders of her guest. A fiery temper? Why, this gentleman, with his highly domed forehead, greying hair and quietly unassuming method of speech should not cause consternation in any circle she could imagine. She took his hat and coat, wiping the snow from them as she positioned them carefully near to the fire to dry a little. He nodded in appreciation (as those small, black eyes seemed to miss nothing) at her small kindness; he appeared to be a man who would not forget a kindness, nor a misdeed towards himself. Certainly, there was no sign of `_diabolical tendencies_` or a `_criminal strain in the blood_` as alluded to by Mr Holmes. She was suddenly wont to speculate as to the reaction of her illustrious tenant, should news of this visit reach his ears. Giving herself a little shake, Martha Hudson determined to herself that such a notion was ill-advised. Mr Holmes did not need to know everything that happened in this great city of theirs (although she wondered if, at times, he aspired to do just that).

"A very charming arrangement, Mrs Hudson," his hand encompassed the fruits of her labours which had been placed between them. "Wedgewood," he commented, adding an inflection that alluded to appreciation of quality and good taste.

"I have chosen a Darjeeling leaf for you, sir," she ventured, politely. It would not do to show any degree of timidity with this man, she decided. "I hope that pleases you."

"A calming balance of infusions," he reflects, tilting his head, black eyes glittering, "shall I be mother?"

Surprisingly small and delicate hands bely their appearance as her guest grasps firmly at her resplendent tea pot and pours with a confident assurance so apparent as to be slightly fearful. But, Mrs Hudson is not fearful, for she has words to exchange with her guest which must be said before the pot is cold.

"I must congratulate you sir, on your recent publication – I do believe it was about the stars, a charming field, I am sure."

He nods, smiling a little. Not a good smile, since it did not illuminate his eyes one bit.

"Ah, _The Dynamics of an Asteroid_. A twee premise, but one which has attracted much attention which I am slightly abashed by." He puts down the tea pot and gives her his full (and slightly reptilian?) attentions. "I do not tend to court attention as a rule, Mrs Hudson. I prefer to be more circumspect about the public eye, unlike your tenant, I must presume to observe."

If she is slightly taken aback by his sudden allusion to Mr Sherlock Holmes, she gives nothing away (something about his demeanour hints that could be a judicious methodology) and offers both milk and sugar to make pause.

"Mr Holmes tolerates his cases being published in _The Strand Magazine_, but it is the good Dr Watson who enjoys sharing their adventures together. People seem to like reading them."

He nods, sagely, stirring anti-clockwise and never taking his eyes from her. _Napoleon of crime_? Surely not. Parish deacon or minister – now that was more likely …

"Sir, I have taken pains to hide your visit from Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, since I felt they would not understand my reasons for seeing you."

"Surely, sharing an appreciation of such a delightful service and excellent biscuits (my absolute favourite) would be reason enough, Madam?"

She felt the slight tug of amusement in his words, and the prickle of annoyance that it was at her expense. No-one, decrees Martha Hudson to herself, pokes fun at me in front of my Wedgewood – it simply isn't decent. She sits up as straight as her arthritis will allow, and lifts her chin, and it is a testimony to his observational skills that he deflates his amusement slightly and sits back in his chair.

She puts down her cup and saucer.

He lowers his eyes.

"You are a man of many achievements, sir; a man of intellect and admirable management. I do declare you to be both self-effacing and modest of these achievement, all of which serves to impress me greatly."

He nods, still looking down, and brushing away an imaginary crumb from his trouser leg.

"The season of goodwill is almost upon us, sir, and I ask you here, as a highly intelligent man, to impress some additional knowledge upon you. A request, in point of fact."

He finally looks up, but the glint is gone. She is clearly sparking an interest, but is he – wary?

"Please," he says, opening small, white hands in receptiveness.

"I, sir, am very fond of my tenants, and I really don't want to think of them, clattering around the dark alleyways and nasty back streets of this great city, hunting you down, and getting into bother. Mr Holmes speaks of you night and day, and has determined to make it his life`s work to bring you to justice."

His lizard eyes never leave her face; he is entranced, fascinated.

"I don`t know what you`ve done to upset Mr Holmes so, and I do not wish to know (goodness knows I have enough trouble sleeping with his strange hours and my bad knee) but I ask you here today to appeal to your better nature, sir, and ask you to desist."

"_Desist_?"

"Stop. A man with your intellect should perhaps take a more suitable and elegant path in life – perhaps another little tale about the stars, or maybe the moon. People like to read stories, and it would be so rewarding for you, sir. A nice little hobby that won`t cause a bother to old ladies and their excitable tenants."

"I see."

"Don`t you think, sir, that London has enough wrong-doings and cut-throats roaming its streets? It is surely time to retire to a more gentlemanly pursuit – I hear Sussex is a lovely place to end your days. Mr Holmes, you see, can become a little consumed when he gets the bit between his teeth and it isn't good for him."

"You do care for him, don't you?"

"Indeed I do. He is a fine man."

And her guest is now standing, but he is far from piqued and reaches for his own hat and coat (which have dried quite nicely) before offering her his hand.

"Mrs Hudson, it has been an absolute pleasure to meet with you. I have noted your request and will endeavour to bring any conflict you may imagine I have with Mr Holmes to a rapid and permanent resolution – you have my word on that."

Mrs Hudson takes his hand – it is like touching the dried, dead leaves of a season that has ended – and she feels a slight sense of relief and assurance that she had been afforded the chance to make her views apparent. He couldn't be _all_ bad – people always have a little good inside them and the potential for redemption. Her words had been strong, true and heartfelt, even though her cheeks felt a little flushed.

As her guest made towards the door, she impetuously reached down and grasped two Empire biscuits and a napkin (part of a set, but it wouldn't do to waver at this point) and wrapped them, snuggly.

"Please, sir, since you enjoyed them – perhaps for later? When you are thinking over our conversation."

He adjusts his cane and inclines his head, almost oscillating as he observes her. Then he smiles, and this time, it is genuine.

"Thank you, Mr Hudson, I assure you that I shall be giving our conversation a great deal of thought."

And he was gone.

**The End**

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><p><strong>AN: If only it was so simple to make those two boys see eye to eye! Bless her, she did her best (although it is sometimes a case of `be careful what you wish for`)**


	5. The Baker Street Irregulars

**Day 8 – The Baker Street Irregulars plan a Christmas Surprise**

**Prompt by Wordwielder**

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><p>Mr Holmes, it be known, does look after his lads<p>

When we search for his murderers and thieving footpads.

Street-based habitations, unsalubrious locations

But a shilling a day doesn't make it so bad.

**~x~**

A loud-spoken word that`s allowed to be heard

Leads to incarceration when the Magistrate`s stirred

We`re seen as a blight, yet hid in plain sight

We`re knowing your business before you`ve bestirred.

**~x~**

Though this season is festive, Mr Holmes isn't restive,

When the game is a-foot and those clues are suggestive.

His own seeking is tireless (though he ventures to hire us)

But wintery gloom lies so bleak and congestive.

**~x~**

Knowing how boredom destroys, we Baker Street Boys

Have decided to enlighten the one who employs.

A retired _cracksman_ was heard tell of a plan

Which we shared with Sir Sherlock to drink in and enjoy.

**~x~**

Our illustrious leg-work led Mr Holmes to a _Deadlurk_

Where select _downy mobsmen_ soon forgot how to smirk.

The demise of such caper found its way to newspaper

So all those _speelers_ and _dippers_ had good reason for irk.

**~x~**

Thus Mr Holmes gained such lift from our small Christmas gift,

Gratitude tumbled forth and decoration was swift.

We all rubbed our hands cleaner, just expecting a _Deaner,_

So glimpsing a guinea chased away any thrift!

**The End**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Gah! Am so sorry for I am quite behind already - am attempting a catch up today!**

**Further apologies for my poetry (particularly to the sublime talents of mrspencil!) - it is certainly NOT the easier option - the wordage I have abused today makes me a `mobsman` of poetry. I can only attempt to improve!**

**Victorian Slang glossary:**

**Cracksman - burglar/safecracker/lock breaker**

**Deaner - a shilling**

**Deadlurk - empty premesis**

**caper - criminal act/device**

**downy - cunning or false**

**mobsman - swindler/pickpocket**

**speeler - cheat/gambler**

**dipper - pickpocket**


	6. The Phenomenon of Condensation

**Day 9: A Night of Nightmares (in alphabetical order) – prompt by Catherine Spark**

* * *

><p><span><strong>The Phenomenon of Condensation<strong>

"Thus fortified I might take my rest in peace. But dreams come through stone walls, light up dark rooms, or darken light ones, and their persons make their exits and their entrances as they please, and laugh at locksmiths."  
>― Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, <em>Carmilla<em>

* * *

><p>It was customary, at the conclusion of the cases of Mr Sherlock Holmes, that upon return to our Baker Street lodgings, he would bound up those seventeen stairs in the manner of a gazelle, or young roebuck, so was he fuelled by the successes and fruits of his labours. Hats and coats would be flung aside and demands made upon our ubiquitous landlady for tea, or a good claret (if a particularly rich outcome was had emerged) and an evening of eager discussion, recollections and enjoyable pipe-smoking would be in order.<p>

But not this day, dear reader.

Holmes walked ahead of me as we returned from hastening the arrest of a certain Mr Trelawney Robinson, ending his pernicious and far-reaching swindling organisation in the process. It had been a mere thirty minutes deductive reasoning and adroit questioning on the part of my companion, but his heavy tread and stooped shoulders as he traversed the stairs told another story. Once inside our cosy sitting room, I riddled the fire to summon up some warmth to combat the biting wind howling outside and cast an assessing eye across his countenance.

"You look exhausted, old fellow. The case was deductive genius, requiring little in the way of physical demands, yet you appear wan and lethargic – " a rather alarming notion nudged at the back of my mind regarding _seven percent solutions_, but I affected to ignore its unwelcome impudence – "do you feel unwell? I may have an invigorating tonic that could afford to revive you somewhat."

Holmes, eyes closed and a considerable length of leg stretched before him, waived away my concerns with his pale hand.

"It is nothing to concern my good doctor with, Watson. Merely to note – sleep has been somewhat elusive to me these recent nights. Irritating, but not life-threatening."

I contemplated his casual response as I loaded my pipe. Holmes would prefer to focus entirely upon the cerebral, whilst neglecting his physical state, sometimes to the point of collapse. His opinion that his body was merely `_an appendix_` to his magnificent brain usually served to both impress and irritate me in equal measure. On this occasion, I was inclining towards the latter.

"Then, as your good doctor, I intend to prescribe an early night, since I do recall we are attending `_Don Giovanni_` at the Opera House tomorrow, as guests of your brother, and you will want to be lively and alert to enjoy such a festive treat."

At the mere mention of his sibling, Holmes`s eyes flew open and his posture afforded a rigidity that alluded to annoyance as he sat up straight.

"As if it were not sufficient my nightmares haunt me through the night? An evening with Mycroft can only command an additional element of torment to my waking hours!"

And he slumped back into his armchair, a pained expression and a splayed hand across his brow.

Perhaps, decided I, it was time for a little nocturnal investigation of my own.

**X**

An army background and a decade or so of Sherlock Holmes`s lack of respect for acceptable sleeping patterns allowed me to be more than able to keep one ear open that cold December night. I sat in my armchair as I feared my bed would allow too deep a slumber, and dozed lightly whilst I waited. Dear reader, should a sane individual require some lucid answer as to what I was awaiting, I should have been unable to answer, suffice to say, I had immersed myself in some relevant reading and knew that nightly disturbances of this frequency would not do to be ignored. My friend had possession of an overly sensitive mind; he perceived so much of what we did not, and such over-stimulation could very well have resulted in a fevered brain or some such serious malaise.

"I cannot always filter, Watson!" he would decry. "All relevant details should be filed away within my brain attic, but detritus can sometimes find its way up there, rather than the more suitable depot of my lumber room."

My evening`s reading material had consisted of Dr Freud`s new epistle, `_Die Traumdeutung_` (_The Interpretation of Dreams_) which I had hidden from Holmes due to its controversial reputation and his utter disregard for ` the ridiculous and fashionable whims of the bored and indolent intelligentsia`. Dr Freud appeared to believe in his writings that a dream was merely an expression of `_the unconscious_` or `_psyche_`, which was always active and ready for expression. People were, apparently, adept at suppressing their inner fears, hopes and desires, resulting in their emergence into their subconscious slumbers. If my friend was dreaming in a disturbing and sleep-depriving fashion, I wished to be present when that occurred. Holmes would never have agreed to such fanciful notions, but I was ready with my own brand of deductions …

**X**

An echoing crash and spinning sound roused me into full awareness. I knew nothing of the hour, but leapt to my feet and across the landing to my friend`s chambers.

"Holmes!" Rapping sharply and waiting only the barest moment before entering, I found him, wide-eyed and entangled in his sheets, a fallen candle and its holder explained the noise I had heard, and the merest stump of beeswax remaining told me it`s light had been present from the moment he retired. As confused and fearful as he was, Holmes allowed me to lift and untangle him, watching my face closely.

"You are correct in your assumption regarding the candle, Watson," he whispered, sleep still present in his voice. "I could not tolerate full darkness, such is the ridiculous power of the imagination. In daylight hours I castigate myself, trouncing my own fears with ridicule, and yet, once the sun is down and the night is come, here I am – fearful."

I sat him in his chair, observing how his hands shook and, with my own candle, how his ashen was his face.

"Tell me your dream – whatever you may remember, Holmes. I may be able to be of help."

Tilting his head he continued in his regard, attempting some level of condescension, as was his wont. But, I had seen his shaking hands, and I _knew_.

"You did appear very taken with Dr Freud`s epistle, Watson. I noted your eyes devouring each word with a hungry vigour." His voice had levelled to a calmer tone and I sensed his determination to win this struggle of mind control.

"Quickly, tell me Holmes, whilst it remains fresh in your psyche – "

"My _psyche_!"

I held his wrists and he stopped, abandoning the conceal of his mockery, and inhaling deeply before speaking.

"I have read something of Dr Freud`s fairy tales, Watson. I spend almost thirty minutes being bombarded by his `_Royal Road to the Unconscious_.` Piffle – "

"Of course."

He eyed me, unsure of my tone.

"I am aware of such `_phenomenon of condensation_`, where a simple image may have multiple meanings."

"So," I counter, keen to elicit information before his recent nightmare faded into the ether of the real world, "what simple image can you recall, Holmes, from this most recent disturbance? If we can perhaps explain your subconscious, these dreams may lose their hold upon you."

Holmes sits back, seemingly pliant to my request.

"I am not a nervous man, Watson, for I regard the emotional qualities as antagonistic to clear reasoning – thus, a crime of passion is a thousand times easier to resolve than a cold, calculated murder. If Dr Freud were to have his way, he would reason that I was repressing my fears and my fear of losing control, so listen, dear Watson, and we will enumerate _my_ `phenomena of condensation` …

… _an apiary and a bee chases, droning eloquently, flying gracefully … grim, horrifying house, hands hammering, holding insidious ill-feeling … jaded killers; looming, leering, lasciviously murdering nobility … obstructing obvious observations, perpetuating quite ridiculous suppositions … spider, slowly scrabbling, turning unsuspecting victims violently web-like … xanthic, yelling Zingaro …"_

I hold up my hand, for my friend`s rapid fire recollection has lambasted my own brain, and I could barely attest to the individual facets of his litany.

"This was all dreamt this very night, Holmes?"

"Of course not, Watson, I am recalling the last five nights of disturbed sleep and the dreams that woke me."

"Alphabetically?"

"Obviously."

"I suspect that you and I have a different definitions of the word `obvious`, Holmes. These dreams – it seems your mind attic is brimming with the world that surrounds and encompasses you. Have you, dear fellow, considered a _spring clean_ – even though we are in the middle of December?"

Holmes did appear markedly more relaxed, and managed a small smile as he rested his chin into the cup his right hand.

"You do so well for me, Watson. You are quite right – a man who demands so much from his mind on a daily basis must expect a little recompense from his `subconscious` during the night. I shall purport to `spring clean` immediately, my dear Watson, and report back to my most excellent physician most diligently. Goodnight."

**X**

Three well-dressed London gentleman descend the wide and graceful steps of the Royal Opera House, unfolding their gloves and hopeful of a swift Hansom in light of clear and frosty evening.

"The Don was passable, but his Italian was more suited to a street market," pronounced Mycroft Holmes, idly. He had raised one gloved hand and a cab had emerged, as if by magic, from the December gloom. "I trust you found favour in the first violin, Sherlock – his cousin schooled you in _your_ first violin as a boy."

"I would recognise those arpeggios anywhere," countered Sherlock, with the typical indolence he affected when in Mycroft`s presence.

"Well, goodnight, dear brother, Doctor. I trust you shall not let the Don`s fire-fuelled demise afford you nightmares."

"Fear not, dear brother," murmured Sherlock Holmes to the retreating cab inhabited by his elder sibling as it clattered away –

" – I shall dream the dreams of the innocent."

And we waited patiently for the next Hansom to arrive.

**THE END**

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><p><strong>AN: apologies for any butchery of Freud, but he had to get in there somehow! Also, the alphabetisation was a little silly, but fun all the same (trying to follow them there prompts!) - had a bit of a struggle towards the end, so just to be clear:**

**xanthic - having a yellow colour**

**Zingaro - a type of gypsy**

**Thank you for reading!**


	7. The Day Holmes laughed & broke my heart

**Day 10 : Holmes laughs at Watson after the latter says/does something silly**

**Prompt by Silvermouse**

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><p><em>(Six months before Dr Watson`s marriage to Mary Morstan)<em>

"_We are all guilty of sin, error, and moments of sheer stupidity; none of us should be casting stones. The occasional arced pebble might be overlooked."  
><em>_Richelle E. Goodrich_

* * *

><p>"Come, Watson!" came the strident tones of Sherlock Holmes from across the boardwalk, "have at it – we will lose sight of him!"<p>

My overworked heart was pounding like engineered pistons as I rounded the corner. It was a dirty December morning in the grimiest part of the Blackwell Basin in the heart of London`s Docklands. The entrance had long since fallen into a shameful state of disrepair and Holmes and I had been forced to leap over piles of rotten wood, rope and crumbling brickwork in our pursuit of Mr Richard Milner, a charlatan and a violent _bludger_ who had caught Holmes`s eye as we lay in wait at the waterside tavern. The air was thick with billowing smog, a throat aching chill pervaded in an acrid pall, and morning frost lay thick as white sugar across the cobbles. Holmes was lithe and spring-heeled that morning and, truthfully, I struggled to hold onto his tails as we rounded the head of each narrow alleyway. His voiced echoed now (_both irritated and irritating_) between claustrophobic brickwork either side of us.

"Holmes, I am doing my best – just go on without me!" My breathe puffed out like smoke in the chill air as I called, giving increasing weight to my pistons analogy – I, the tired old engine at the steamworks and he, the streamlined showpiece, fresh from a re-fit.

I rounded the latest corner, sweat beaded lavishly beneath my hatband and coat tails flapping in the effort. Unfortunately, I had inadvertently happened upon a sheer and glassy stretch of ice that fully coated the cobbles, transforming them into a smooth expanse, and was just in time to hear my companion sound a warning shot:

" Watson – watch out for - !"

But all that could be executed was a horrified glance before my inadequate boots lost any purchase on their glacial terrain, and I skidded, flamboyantly and ludicrously across it upon my chest and stomach, very much the _winded starfish_. As I came to a slowing halt, I managed to assess the feet beside my head, noting the brogues of my friend and the stout work boots of the man he held in a vice-like arm lock. Looking up and gathering what remained of my breath and my dignity, I saw the struggling form of Richard Milner was of only secondary importance to Sherlock Holmes. He was glaring down at me with what may only be described, dear reader, as marked annoyance.

"I see your theatrical approach is not limited to your chronicling of my affairs, Watson. Do get up, there`s a good fellow, and assist me with Mr Milner, since he appears to be only slightly less lubricious than this ice."

**X**

A warming glass of port had been afforded to me by our ever solicitous landlady as we dawdled over supper that evening.

"There you go, Doctor. Mr Holmes has requested I coddle you a little this evening, sir."

"_Coddle_?"

"He feels that a man of your age might need some sustenance after a difficult day at the docks."

"_A man of my age_? Mrs Hudson, I hasten to assure you – "

In response, she put a motherly hand upon my sleeve and nodded, sagely.

"And I`ve ordered extra coal from the new merchant, who assures me it burns that little bit more brightly, so you put a few extra pieces on tonight Doctor – it will warm you – " was this the ghost of a _wink_? " – after your _skating_."

Holmes had his red dressing-gowned back to me as he executed a few trills and slurs upon his violin, but I knew him to be listening, and was more than a little suspicious he was having a little fun at my expense.

"Holmes, have you been laughing at me with Mrs Hudson?"

Instantly, his face whipped around, bow held mid-air and fingers bent across its neck; it was a sombre and indignant face.

"Watson," he returned, in his most serious of humours, "I would never presume to make mirth at my Boswell – England would fall."

**X**

As the clock struck nine, I acknowledged the encroaching chill of the night in a slight shiver and moved towards the scuttle to replenish our dwindling coals. Holmes was at his chemistry, giving moment to his Bunsen burner and approaching a bubbling flask with a set of tongs – I do forget the rationale of his experiment, but fully recall the malodorous miasma that was gradually infiltrating our humble quarters, and was inwardly resolute that I would make mention within the hour. Grasping the chunk of coal firmly, I placed it within the centre of the blaze, and added two or three more for good measure; this winter had afforded a hard grip upon the city, and any chance of warmth was embraced with good cheer.

"Holmes," I turned towards him, replenishing my glass from the sideboard, "would it be at all possible to let in a little ventilation? I can scarcely breathe with the fug you are creating."

"Much less an idea, Watson, to let the perpetual London _fug_ find its way into our chambers from the outside."

"Even so – "

As the words left my mouth, a sudden and violent crack issued from the hearth behind me as one of the coals exploded with an almost volcanic and frenzied vigour. So startled was I that my glass jerked skywards, its contents spewing forth and colliding with the beaker held by my room-mate. Within a moment, a fizzle was promoted to a flare, and Holmes`s experiment was lost in a blinding flash that ended in a loud pop and a black circle of soot on the ceiling above his head. My friend removed his goggles, wiping remnants of the distillation from his hair and collar. His face was austere in the extreme.

"Watson," he sighed, "as your companion and your friend, I must regret to inform you that stealth and subtlety may _not_ be where your strengths lie."

**X**

Mrs Hudson brought in hot crumpets which I knew to be her favoured breakfasting bake for Holmes and myself. I smiled as I sat back in my chair. A good night`s rest and an early morning telegram had elicited a tranquillity in my demeanour which the previous day and its embarrassing list of accidents could not deign to obscure. Holmes (as was his wont) had eaten little and was determining upon a letter he had received that morning from a Mesopotamian Count which was causing him a vexing degree of consternation. I added sugar to my coffee and idly stirred, studying his frowning countenance. I suspected, deep within my heart, that I would soon be deflecting his thoughts and smiled at the notion. Naturally, he noticed without noticing and alerted himself fully to my gaze.

"Is there something I may help you with, Holmes?"

"I strongly advise you to leave your coffee this morning, Watson."

"Is it a case? If so, I sincerely hope some oligarch is not in such dire straits that he needs to deprive a middle-aged Englishman of his morning beverage."

"These are not the oligarch`s words of advice, Watson, but my own."

I raised my cup to my lips, smiling at him, since I felt the unique comfort of knowing something he did not.

"All in good time, my dear fellow," I advised, and sipped.

A sip was followed by a splutter, thenceforth a choke, a gag and an eruption of tea over our landlady`s pristine white tablecloth. My eyes watered as I blindly reached for a glass of water from the carafe. I attempted speech, but a cacophony of coughing punctuated our serene breakfasting morning in rude abandon. I simply was unable to stop.

I was dimly aware of Holmes passing me a glass of water and issuing me a word or two.

"Coffee with salt, rather than sugar, Watson – not a mistake to be repeated."

And all I could do (between choking coughs) was to nod my head in agreement and appreciate the calm and serious demeanour employed by my companion at my plight.

**X**

Evening had come to Baker Street and Holmes and I sat across from each other in the December gloom. We had not spoken of my morning`s discomfiture and I had reason to be introspective. A hearty fire (free of spitting coals) crackled in the grate and I held a small brandy which promised a lack of salt and a warming glow. Holmes was checking Euclid for various references, but appeared relaxed and amenable. I felt this was the moment I had been awaiting.

"Holmes, would it trouble you to recall a recent conversation we had regarding a current interest of mine – a lady by the name of Miss Mary Morstan?"

"Blonde hair, cat lover, amateur baker and lover of langoustines – a more than interesting focus during the case, Watson."

"Hmm … a focus, yes … Holmes – I have asked Mary Morstan to marry me and she, this morning, has accepted. I am to be married, Holmes."

I regarded my friend and, truth be told, his focus was entirely upon me and my news. His grey eyes glowed with a granite-like understanding and his countenance remained intransigent and unreadable.

"I shall be marrying Mary and taking up a married man`s practise in Northington. Holmes, I could think of no other moment to inform you."

Sherlock Holmes caught my eye and brought me into his deep, grey glance.

"Oh."

Within a moment, a smile had chased across his face and taken charge. His lids creased and his chin was raised and a mischievous twinkle drew his focus.

"John Watson, you seem to have developed a pronounced and admirable pawky humour that has tested me sorely over the past few days. Skating, explosives, self-poisoning – your talents have appeared endless, but this … this … " he held his face in his hands and almost snorted in humour - "this! Truly, Watson, you have surpassed yourself! Married? Leave Baker Street? A fine conspiracy to tease away the last vestiges of my humour! Shame on you, and shame upon your tactics! Now, let us furnish ourselves with port and toast to the coming onslaught – winter is coming, Watson, and we must be prepared."

And he laughs, loud and hearty, but the only humour he can find chinks my heart a little, and makes it raw.

**THE END**


	8. Christmas in the Trenches December 2014

**Day 11 : Fighting in France during the Great War, Watson writes to Holmes – prompt by Madam`zelleGiry**

**Day 12 : Crystal Ball – prompt by Sendai**

**Day 13 : Forest – prompt by SheWhoScrawls**

**Apologies for a collation of prompts, but Christmas is clearly getting the better of me.**

* * *

><p>14th December 1914<p>

Somewhere near Verdun

1st Northumberland Fusiliers Battalion

My Dear Holmes,

As you predicted in your most recent letter, all leave has indeed been cancelled since the Battalion are preparing for a charge several days hence. After a relatively quiet week, a tremendous and terrifying bombardment called our men to arms last night. The Huns sent in dozens of _Crumps_ and shrapnel, which made reaching the wounded a treacherous and exhaustive process. A Crump landed near to our dressing station, killing four of our best orderlies and blocking passage for wounded and bleeding men, trying to reach us. Our C.O. (you know Cumberledge, from the Paignton Forgery case) suffered a bleeding artery in his head which laid the fellow so low, I am unsure he will see the morning. At least we avoided a direct hit to the trench, since this would have been catastrophic for any fellows left.

The wind continues to whistle down into the trenches with a tenacity and power I had utterly underestimated before my posting. The ice has got into everything, but at least the mud is harder now, and there is less chance of drowning in its filthy draw.

Had I a crystal ball in my possession but six months ago, in the height of a British summer and comfortable in my little suburban practice, I would have looked upon the sight of this war and been unable to believe what I saw. A desolate landscape of mud and barbed wire and peppered with shells, craters and abandoned corpses, stretching for miles above our heads – and below, the filthy, vermin-ridded stink of the trenches – men beneath the earth and living in a kind of purgatory; _why this is __hell__, __nor am I out of it__._

Do write soon and tell me of my London.

Yours,

John Watson (Capt.)

**X**

19th December 1914

Somewhere near Verdun

1st Northumberland Fusiliers Battalion

My Dear Holmes,

Today we saw a few pale shafts of winter sun above the machine gun posts and a little hope has entered the Battalion. Your advice regarding the recent coppicing in the nearby forest has led to the near miraculous discovery of eighteen of our men. Thanks to your sound reasoning and excellent mapwork, the Adjutant, three uninjured lads and myself searched at dusk, in the area where the main charge had been made. The men, weak and injured as they were, had made small dug-outs and lay hidden behind trees. So weak were they that they could not call out, but the joy and pitiful relief that manifested itself was a heart-warming moment to behold for us all. Consequently, with the help of several more of my medical staff, we got all eighteen men away from this advanced point by daybreak. I have nothing but gratitude, my dear friend, and marvel that these miles between us do little to dim the brilliance and worth of your reasoning.

Shells have been raining down since the bombardment began two hours since. I survive by lint bandage stuffed in my ears to dim the relentless whistles, cracks and rumbles shaking at our shelter. You would be quite proud, Holmes, at my detailed an accurate record-keeping since my posting. Finding myself in the midst of daily chaos and entropy, I have adopted an orderly approach to my medical scrapbook, and am keeping a journal of cases that are increasingly typical in these dire circumstances. I am increasingly determined in my approach to the hygiene of a fighting army and the constant threat of typhoid fever amongst our ranks. Yesterday, myself and one other medic vaccinated one hundred and seventy eight men; we have to believe we are fighting this war one man at a time.

Yours,

John Watson (Capt.)

**X**

22nd December 1914

Somewhere near Verdun

1st Northumberland Fusiliers Battalion

My Dear Holmes,

We lost a man yesterday in most horrific circumstances, which still serves to wring a few more drops of ghastliness from this already ghastly world I now inhabit. As you may imagine, Holmes, we wage a constant battle against vermin or lice, which serve to make life just a little more unpleasant down here. I advise the men to change their singlets regularly, and have recently collected as many tubs as I could lay my hands on, begging the cooks to heat up water and succeeding in bathing over 100 men in the past few days. Undergarments must also be rigorously checked and soaked in petrol if lice are visible. Most tragically, a young sapper by the name of Roberts decided he would rub petrol over his skin, subsequently wearing his pyjamas to bed as usual. A build-up of vapours, with the addition of a naked flame resulted in the poor man being set ablaze in front of his comrades and friends. I have vowed that this can never happen again, and have attempted to educate the men as best I can.

Many fellows here have become encumbered cripples as a result of the constant mud and water underfoot. Feet that have been immersed for months suddenly swell up, in the manner of balloons, and they are unable to walk and threat of gangrene presents itself. I have seen something akin to this this in the Crimea in the form of frostbite, but nothing so extreme and debilitating.

I truly appreciate your efforts to bring a little of a London Christmas to the battlefield. Mrs Hudson always favoured the plumpest of geese and the figgiest of puddings, and I do believe her housekeeping allowed for a fine port or two at Baker Street, not to make mention of her Stilton. Holly, Holmes? Perhaps my absence has elicited a sentimental flourish from you at long last, but I truthfully have gained some comfort from the idea of yourself and Billy decorating the mantel and the picture frames with such festive boughs and berries – I hope you furnished him with an extra farthing for his trouble; mention it when you wish him a happy Christmas from myself.

Daylight is failing and candles are in short supply since my electric torch has become too damp to be of use. Until the next time,

Yours,

John Watson (Capt.)

**X**

24th December 1914

Somewhere near Verdun

1st Northumberland Fusiliers Battalion

My Dear Holmes,

The need for national security is so paramount at present, thus I shall not be enquiring further into your conversations at the War Office with your brother, suffice to say that supplies have finally reached us today and our Christmas boxes from the _Sailors and Soldiers Christmas Fund_ were gratefully received, providing a much needed fillip to myself and the men. A palpable feeling of hope and good cheer was present in our little corner of France this very night. Pictures of loved ones, chocolate and a pipe of tobacco are an embarrassment of riches for men who pick lice from their bodies and mud from their faces on a daily basis. Please thank Mrs Hudson for the warm muffler send along with my box, and I may speculate as to whom has seen fit to equip me with a hip flask full of brandy, but I could not possibly make comment. Someone once told me it was a mistake to theorise before one has sufficient data, thus I must keep my counsel, and proceed to wish my benefactor the compliments of the Season and all the gratitude a stranded man has access to.

Yours,

John Watson (Capt.)

**X**

28th December 1914

Somewhere near Verdun

1st Northumberland Fusiliers Battalion

My Dear Holmes,

"_I was only cleaning my gun."_ They all arrive on my table with a similar litany issuing from their lips, but the result is always the same; survivors of self-inflicted gunshot wounds are court-martialled and summarily executed by firing squad or sent for penal servitude. The maxim of the British Army is that a coward is our enemy and our enemy must be dispersed. Holmes, as you know, I am a fair-minded man and I have seen the degradation and hardships encountered down here which may drive a good man to attempt desertion. In truth, I cannot judge, for there is little glory lying here, in the bowels of the earth. I want this war to be over, old friend, for no good can come of it and I have seen enough death to last a thousand lifetimes.

A groaning man was brought atop a stretcher this morning, wrapped in a great coat and seemingly constructed from a mass of mud and filth. They laid him down and a Bugler held a candle whilst I cut away his clothing and revealed, through the caked mud and dirt, a large slash of a cut across his back. All I could do was to paint the wound with iodine, swab with pure carbolic and bandage as cleanly as I could muster. His legs and feet were a mass of mud and the Bugler cut off his puttees and boots so that I could rub some warmth back into his poor feet. We administered hot Oxo and cocoa and dosed the man with morphia, so great was the cold. Subsequently, man after man arrived to populate my inadequate quarters, but one could do very little for them.

Before my army days, I imagined bullet wounds to consist of clean punctures, but close range shooting gives way to explosive and gaping exit wounds so large I could fit my fist inside them; the bullet having laid waste to broken muscle which hung from it. You have already explained to me, dear friend, how a bullet fired at close range can turn in its trajectory and burst its way out of flesh and bone.

Apologies for such a macabre tone to my epistle; I promise a less grisly attempt next time.

Yours,

John Watson (Capt.)

**X**

31st December 1914

Somewhere near Verdun

1st Northumberland Fusiliers Battalion

My Dear Holmes,

I recall the tone of my previous letter and regret that I cannot fulfil my promise, since this message brings no less dire reportage. Yesterday afternoon, my SB Corporal and myself found an R.E. man with a damaged arm up in the area of forest, beyond the edges of the trenches. We attempted a tourniquet with a respirator string, but the gunshot wound was of such severity that a field amputation was necessary. Luckily, my electric torch was effective upon this occasion, but, my dear friend, words cannot describe the battle we had to remove this poor man from the woods in the darkness. Sinking to our knees in the viscous mud elicited a two hour struggle to return the poor fellow to the safety of the trenches, struggling through dense trees and bushes and the constant fear of discovery.

Afterwards, I lay on my bed and I do confess, old man, that my hand shook too much to load or light my pipe and all that could be done was to stare at the planking above my bed and fight down the surging tide of fear and disgust from within.

I have fought several long and difficult campaigns in my youth, but now, as I approach fifty years of age, I realise my stomach has been sickened of war fare. I do not have the heart for the pipes that take us into battle and the bugle cry that rallies into the charge, and yet tomorrow will bring more bloodshed, more torn flesh and more wild-eyed men to beg me to save them because they want to see their mother or father or sweetheart again…

And I will be ready, Holmes, because there simply isn't any other way to be.

Yours, as ever,

John.

**The End**


	9. Mrs Hudsons Past

**Day 14: Mrs Hudson tells Holmes and Watson about her past – prompt from SheWhoScrawls**

"**The motives of women are so inscrutable, their most trivial actions may mean volumes, or their most extraordinary conduct may depend upon a hairpin or a curling tongs."**

**(The Second Stain)**

**Mrs Hudson, the Diamond and the Elephant Trainer`s Wife**

During my time as landlady to Mr Sherlock Holmes, I must confess to being a little seduced by his clientele.

Oh, in no way do I mean in an improper manner – goodness me, I am a respectable housekeeper and landlady who can proudly hold my head up at the _Catholic Women`s Guild_. No, I mean I was sometimes a little _enthralled _by a number of the folks who took those seventeen steps to the man they believed had possession of all their answers. Gentlefolk of the highest echelons; famed society beauties (usually heavily veiled, but I know much about many of the doings in this great city of ours); charming performers of the West End stages; esteemed academics and, upon one occasion, the violin soloist from the _London Philharmonic_ who used to set Mrs Turner`s heart a flutter when featured in _The Sunday Bull_ tattle pages on a regular basis.

It was therefore, quite a moment that third Tuesday in December last year, when none other than our very own Prime Minister, Lord Bellinger arrived, in the early hours of the morning. A sharp ring, accompanied by an imperious rapping on my paintwork roused this Christian lady from a bed she shouldn't need to have taken leave from for at least another two hours; and in strode several burly policemen, and his Lordship, accompanied by Mr Trelawney Hope, a very esteemed member of our cabinet. Doctor Watson took me to one side an assured me everything was fine, and that I should not share news of our illustrious clients to anyone for quite some time.

"There may be dire consequences for all of Europe," he added, gravely, before joining Mr Holmes and the other gentlemen in their quarters. All that could be heard for several hours hence was the thud of pacing and the rumble of voices (some more raised than others, I may disclose) and for the rest of that week, Mr Holmes was bristling with an air of urgency and gravity. He and the good doctor were back and forth from our humble Baker Street apartments, bright-eyed with both excitement and exhaustion, depending on the time of day. Jane and Billy heard nothing but complaints from me that week, I must confess, what with all the near criminal waste of food and good coal for two such distracted gentlemen.

By the Friday, I knew, in my waters, that case was not progressing in quite the way Mrs Holmes would have liked. Taking in his Darjeeling at half of ten, I noted his agitated and restless demeanour, depicted by his savage pacing, unruly hair and the sight of him holding a lit cigarette in his left hand whilst smoking another with his right. Catching the sage eye of Doctor Watson, I indicated my concern with a question lighting behind my eyes – his answer was a solemn shake of the head – the case was still unsolved.

_Busying myself_ would be my saintly mama`s sound advice when apprehension was my master, therefore I took my carpet brush and sweeper in hand that afternoon, and determined to give those stairs a bottoming they never would forget. My distraction appeared to be successful, as I had achieved the beautification of seven of my stairs (not to mention a hectic flush and a rosy glow upon my cheek) when the bell rang once more and a very grand and nervous young lady stood, oscillating upon the stoop.

"Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope to see Mr Holmes. He is not expecting me, but I must insist upon an audience – a – a great deal could depend upon it."

Now, although I do not claim to be of noble birth, I have, since living with Mr Holmes, noted the little quirks in folks that can raise a person`s interest. Lady Hilda had the bluest eyes, pinkest cheeks and most fashionable of skirts, but I saw that her gloves were mis-matched, her bonnet at an angle a fashionable lady would not entertain, and all buttons were not fastened upon her kid boots. She may have observed my noticings, and perceived me with what I would consider, a thoughtful look of her very own.

"Oh, I must apologise, since I have been told I have quite the facility for the dramatic … it really is quite a trifling matter, in truth. My husband visited Mr Holmes earlier in the week and mislaid his gloves. I was passing Baker Street in my Brougham and recalled his loss – he was rather attached to those gloves, and the December weather has been treating us unkindly of late – therefore I bid my man to call here, so I may happen upon them. Would Mr Holmes and Dr Watson be at home?"

As many ladies of the West End as I had encountered across the doors of Baker Street, none had exhibited quite the talent for play-acting as my Lady Hilda. You see, I know when a woman is being untruthful, for I have had good cause to study the play across the face of a liar – whether gentlefolk or more lowly born. She gave a swift and alarming smile, as though to gain my confidence and win my certitude.

"My husband would dearly love to recover his gloves," she reiterates, and a steely look of determination enters her eye which I recognise, because I have witnessed such a look before.

"Then please, Madam, do come in and I will alert Mr Holmes that your are here … _for Mr Hope`s gloves_."

**X**

When I am clearing away the cold mutton (untouched by Mr Holmes) and cheese that evening, I chance upon a moment to speak with my most perplexed and agitated tenant. I do not like to see him in this humour, since I know his habits can de-generate into ill-advised meanderings if his mind is out of sorts.

"Mr Holmes," I venture, observing his wall of drawings, plans and scribblings and the tapping of his feet and drumming of his fingers – "I do not wish to distract you sir – "

"Good, Mrs Hudson – that is the best news of a more than perplexing day."

"No, sir – I mean, I met Lady Trelawney on the stair this afternoon – "

"Indeed." He removes one piece of foolscap from the wall, rolls it into a ball and throws it (with some truculence) into the grate.

"And I did observe, sir, that I noticed she may have been less than truthful in her demeanour."

Mr Holmes stopped mid-reach and whipped his head around to face me. I could not quite determine the shade of meaning behind his eyes, but I continued to venture my thoughts.

"When a Lady of such breeding and education has bonnet, boots and gloves in such discordant disharmony, I would dare to name her troubled, sir."

Mr Holmes was giving me his fullest attention, and I do not mind to mention, it is a stout-hearted and bold criminal who can withstand such a focused and intense gaze.

"Do continue, Mrs Hudson."

"Sir, I do not mean to tell you your business, since I know your business to be of the highest quality in the land, but I am a woman who can look in the face of another and understand when there is a secret to be told … You see, sir, I was not always a housekeeper, nor indeed a landlady …

**X**

Jethro Hudson had the darkest of eyes and the most arresting of smiles when I first laid eyes upon him. My dearest friend, Rosemary Hines and myself had stolen away from my father`s green grocers earlier than we had leave to do, but we had little care and felt most daring and wild that evening, since the circus had come to town. Oh, we loved the circus, gentlemen – the noise, the colours, the smell of burnt sugar and the air of excitement that gave everything such a glamorous air. We were young, sir, and we were silly girls. Jethro kept the ponies that wore the tall feathers and galloped around that ring whilst their glittering riders did the most daring of acrobatics atop their backs. He polished those ponies until they gleamed; he loved them and tended them as if they were his children, and it was his kindness that won my heart, rather than his flashing eyes alone.

Mr Holmes, Doctor, I must confess that I returned every night to the circus after that, for a whole week. My father knew nothing of it, and my mother did not ask. When I arrived upon an empty field with only the flattened grass to show evidence of their existence, I was bereft – heartbroken. I wept all the way home, and when Jethro arrived at my window late that night, asking me to marry him and travel around the Empire with him and his ponies, I had no hesitation in my actions. Wild? Silly? Yes, but I followed my heart, and, sir, we were married. Unfortunately, soon after our wedding, I realised that caring for his horses was only one of my Jethro`s many talents. He was not honest, sir, and I am ashamed to admit that he made me less than honest too. I did not know where the tiny precious stones came from that he asked me to sew into the hem of my petticoats to smuggle across those European borders, and I did not care to ask, since I knew the answer would not be to my liking. I loved him, sir, and love can make a person behave in the oddest of ways – and that is the only defence I can offer for myself.

Each time we passed a border patrol with our circus waggons, my petticoats felt heavier than a barrel of lead and my cheeks flamed with the shame of the woman who lies for love. It came to pass, then, that after one year of such travelling and petticoat smuggling, I made firm with myself that I would speak to Jethro regarding his request of me. I was, and am, Mr Holmes, an honest woman, and my love for him was being tainted and eroded by the requests he made of me. I found him, one night, in the tent of Jarvis Amberton, the elephant trainer, who was himself married to a most bewitching gypsy girl by the name of Genevine. As I entered, I noted the presence of Genevine and my husband, but the absence of Jarvis Amberton, who was clearly occupied in his duties. There had been low, murmurings and peals of laughter as I entered, sir, but as they saw me, I noted the manner in which they sprung apart, as if scalded by my flat iron after an hours warming on the range.

"Do you have business with my husband?" I ventured, boldly to Miss Genevine. Her dark eyes eventually found my own but I knew by her face, her tremor, her pale cheek and false humour that she was lying when she smiled.

"We were merely chatting about Jarvis`s latest calf, Martha," trilled she, "and awaiting his return."

My husband`s face was as blank as the billowing calico over our heads, but in hers I saw everything – I can still see it now – so, believe me when I say to you, Mr Holmes – Lady Hilda Trelawney is being less than truthful, and I fear she has much to hide regarding this matter, whatever it may be."

I finished, almost breathless, and looked at my tenants, most uncertain of their response. Truth be told, I had admitted complicit and illegal doings to the best consulting detective the world has ever known, therefore, my constitution had affected a tremulous design.

"Apologies to you, gentlemen – I have, perhaps, been more than a little forward in my confidences."

I reached for the plates on the table, but Mr Holmes reached out his pale hand and held my forearm momentarily –

"Not in the slightest, my dear lady," he levelled the quirk of a smile in my direction and I felt a tremendous surge of relief. "You have shared something very private and intimate to yourself and your past, but of very great use and importance to me. I am grateful for your sacrifice and applaud your courage."

I put down the plate, almost weak with consolation. His grey eyes catch mine momentarily, and I sense the import of his words.

"I very much need a further audience with Lady Hilda – come Watson, let us attempt to wave down a Hansom at this unholy hour and ungodly weather, and make a visit on a Lady who may wish to furnish us with a little more information regarding a certain dispatch box!"

And my two gentlemen clatter down the stairs in a flurry of coats, hats, boots and surging morale; moving again towards the solution of a case and the rightings of a wrong.

**X**

It was almost Christmas Eve, a mere ten days later, when _The Case of the Second Stain_ (Doctor Watson has such a way with titles) was solved, and the murder of Eduardo Lucas disentangled from the murky world of a political conundrum. Mr Holmes and Dr Watson had just returned from their morning constitutional, and I was very pleased to see a fine wreath of holly in the hands of the Doctor, along with a large paper of sweet chestnuts.

"Festive greetings to you on this fine morning," he smiles, presenting them to me with a nod of his head before galloping up the stairs to attend to the fire. Mr Holmes is more leisured in removing his outer garments, and I feel the weight of his gaze as I make busy with my gifts and begin to repair to the kitchen.

"We all need a little reminder of our past, my dear Mrs Hudson, and I am delighted to see you to be no exception. We will take tea as soon as you are able, since the morning is as chill as it is fine." And he followed the good doctor up to their rooms.

I, myself give a little smile and pat my hair where my very observant tenant has been perusing. Most folks would imagine an honest, but lowly housekeeper to wear a little decoration as her hair pin, particularly in the festive season – perhaps a little silver topped clip, or a paste cluster of fake stones or pearls.

But not me, oh no … I prefer the weight of a diamond.

**The End**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I know The Second Stain was set in July 1888, but I took a liberty (or two!)**


	10. The Bowler Hat in the Grave

**Day 15: The Bowler hat in the Grave – Prompt by Stutley Constable**

* * *

><p><span><strong>London<strong>

**December 1891**

I sit in the most isolated spot of the entire nave of St Mary`s. Some kindly soul has firmly closed the huge doors to keep out the stinging winter sleet which has blown across London for the past two days, but so far am I from the stove, that the cold succeeds in biting through my greatcoat and my muffler as if they were scant summer threads that objurgated all rights to protection. This does not trouble me, however, this freezing chill that prickles my flesh and steals deep into my bone marrow; no, I welcome winter`s bitter kiss, since I welcome the numbness it brings. I welcome this, since it stops me from feeling for dear reader, why would I want to ever feel again?

So, I sit in the furthest pew and listen to the cracked and dusty tones of a clergyman sound forth about a man he may know of, but cannot _know _as I do. I sit and hear him recount the attributes of a man, so remarkable and wholly unique in every way, that his words are almost offensive to me in their inadequacy.

_"Mr Sherlock Holmes, a most intelligent and incisive man, who would often assist the constabulary in their dealings with the criminal classes …"_

And I am resolute, despite my numbness, that I will not stand, shake my fist and discredit this kindly Reverend`s eulogy to my friend; I will not shame the people gathered here, to pay their respects at his Memorial; I will not take the pulpit myself and inform anyone who will listen:

_He was the man I regarded as the best and wisest I had ever known! No-one here can possibly understand what has been lost! He led the police in every case he undertook; they were the assistants to a man who mastered almost every criminal he encountered – until he encountered his final case and made the greatest of sacrifices …_

The candles flicker and I dip my head down, burying my frozen face as deep as I can within my woollen collar. A flash of white from the corner of my eye and I know Mrs Hudson has turned to find me with her kindly eyes; still kindly despite my truculent refusal of her gracious and sympathetic offer of company on this difficult day. Although inordinately fond of her, I cannot afford her similar consolation, since I have none to offer myself. Inwardly I groan as the heavy and recumbent gasp of the organ gives herald to the beginnings of a hymn, for I have realised that I have no tolerance for music now. Earlier months saw me avoiding St James`s Park and the bandstand on a Sunday morn, any carollers have been turned away by my good wife at my request, and an unfortunate violinist trying his luck at the corner of Wyndham Place a mere month ago, received the wrath of a man so wrapped up in his grief as to have thrown his own good manners upon the funeral pyre.

_`Brightest and best of the sons of the morning,  
>Dawn on our darkness and lend us Thine aid;<br>Star of the East, the horizon adorning,  
>Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid.`<em>

And the fetid incense catches in my throat, causing it to ache and tighten, and my eyes to prickle and smart … I almost stand to step outside, but Captain John H Watson has pride of duty, and an obligation to a man who rarely put his own comfort above another`s need; so I sit, and I doggedly coerce to think outside of myself and outside of this cold and plaintive evening.

Brompton Cemetery on the Fulham Road, and I am standing at a grave that I know to be empty, regarding a black, marbled headstone that I had never believed I would have cause to see. It was September and the leaves had yet to fall, therefore an abundant canopy sheltered me from pale slants of sunlight and prying eyes as I recalled words, scrawled on a scrap of fluttering paper at the head of a pathway:

_`I fear it is at a cost that will give pain to my friends, and especially, my dear Watson, to you."_

I feel no regret that I have rather petulantly stipulated for Mrs Hudson to pack away my friend`s pipes, his dressing gowns, chemical apparatus, even his Persian slipper, for fear my eyes alight upon them and expose my raw and capricious grief when visiting Baker Street. I must confess, dear reader, that such visits have been most scant, and only executed when deemed unavoidable; my dear Mary has spoken with frankness with me upon the matter, but I have made little attempt at apology or explanation.

I recall Holmes visiting me upon that fateful night before we set off for Meringen. Grazed and bleeding knuckles, shock and agitation at being the subject of three murder attempts, and all allusions to the apprehension of Professor Moriarty as being the _crowning achievement_ of his career… but in this cemetery, there are no crowns, no kings nor any such powers that rule this world; only the dark, cool earth and the rustle of leaves above my head.

I touch the brim of my sturdy bowler hat – the headgear that Holmes always attributed as mine as we stood at the coat rack.

"You must take the bowler, Watson, it becomes your stolid and respectable Englishness, I do declare!"

And I did not argue, even when he refused to take on the mantle of the deerstalker which littered the drawings illustrating his cases in _The Strand_ – " a man does not wear country headgear in the town, old fellow – it simply will not do!" – and I took my bowler every time, until it became my habit and my uniform.

Now, at the graveside of my dearest friend, the most admirable, fascinating and utterly unique individual to colour my world, I remove my hat as a mark of respect and regret for believing a hoax summons; for failing to grasp the true gravity of a desperate situation …

_`Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion,  
>Odours of Edom, and offerings divine?<br>Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the ocean,  
>Myrrh from the forest, and gold from the mine?`<em>

And I am back, sat ramrod straight, in the pews of St. Mary`s on Wyndham Place, with the wind whistling beneath the gaps in the ancient wooden door; and I am cold, and I am numb and I am glad of it – because to allow a glimpse of the vitality of the man who was Sherlock Holmes into this frozen, dusty and solemn House of God would be similar to trapping a bright butterfly in a tiny jar …

Back at Brompton, I feel the felt of the brim beneath my fingers, and it seems ridiculously heavy and cumbersome. Thus, I throw (unleash?) my hat from my grasp so that it falls, neatly onto the empty grave of my friend and settles there, quite comfortably, nestling jauntily against the headstone.

_He is not here_, I tell the gentle breeze between those leaves; _he is not here_.

**The End**

For I


	11. Day 16: The Ladder

**A/N: Huge and grovelling apologies for Christmas Hiatus - insane family schedule/illness muscled out my beloved Winter Writings Challenge - how dare it! I will be making scurrilous attempts to regain some ground, starting here!**

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><p><span><strong>Day 16: Ladder<strong>

**(Prompt by SheWhoScrawls)**

The ice stretches before me like a thousand feet of dirty glass, cold rising from its surface in smoky plumes and dissipating into the morning air. The breath leaves my mouth in much the same manner and I wish, for the hundredth or so time, that I had remembered to stuff my gloves into my pocket before leaving Baker Street.

_("Always in such a hurry, Mr Holmes," tuts Mrs Hudson as I race down the stairs as dawn is breaking, and she is carrying hot water into the back kitchen, "it isn't decent.")_

A little less haste would have meant my naked hands would not be touching the frozen surface of the River Thames in a vain attempt to prevent my similarly exposed cheek from skimming its icy sheen. I raise my head, since my recent monograph detailing `_The Mechanism of Brittle Compressive Failure in Ice formations"_ was mercifully fresh in my mind, and the gradually increasing glow of morning light allowed closer observation of my environment, and my foe.

Godfrey Siesterson, the Norwegian Envoy`s assistant, and recently discovered to have been passing secrets from the Norwegian Embassy in London to agencies abroad (_currently unknown, but rumoured to favour the Wilhelmstrasse of our German neighbours_) is currently two hundred and eighty yards ahead of me and is currently in possession of two main advantages:

1) He is upright and moving

2) He carries a pistol (_which is loaded_).

He continues to move with more surety and vigour than I would perhaps have prescribed in these current conditions, since I know that my one and only advantage is my proximity to the ice and the flow beneath. A quarter to a third of terminal failure stress is caused by a progressive and generally uniform increase in the crack density throughout the body of ice as the load upon it rises. Coarsely grained ice, such as this, necessitates a friction coefficient to determine fracture toughness – until compressive strength reaches a maximum. All of this, of course, is rendered moot, since I have no means to accurately calculate such data as I am face first, spread-eagled (and gloveless) across the filthy ice of the river. Also, I think I may be bleeding a little bit (_tedious and easy to ignore at present_) and am finding it difficult to right myself on my current, glistening resting place.

Siesterson is gaining ground towards the middle of the river, keeping tight hold of a pistol I estimate to be almost eighty percent in range enough to do more serious damage to myself. He cannot, despite such perilous conditions, be allowed to leave my sight – politics aside, the shady and duplicitous nature of spies has always irked me considerably, and this simply will not do. Shouts can now be heard, resonating and echoing across the expanse behind me. Twisting my neck, I turn to see dark shapes in the distance, two of them joined by a long, solid and horizontal structure and making relatively slow progress. The cut of his bowler and style of his gait (even on ice) identify one of the men as Watson, and I hear his words as they are carried towards me in the mist:

"Quickly, make haste, he is down, he is hurt!"

Hardly a scratch, but my dear Watson is always quite the dramatist.

I return my gaze to the ice, since therein I will find my answer to the question – will this man make best his escape from us today? Where I lie (like a lizard on a rock), the ice retains a blueish tinge, and a crystalline formation denoting thickness of a reassuring level. Scanning my eyes across towards the Norwegian, I note pressure ridges, caused by currents and winds, and a white, opaqueness, indicative of water saturated snow lying atop of the original ice, forming another (less reliable) layer. Bubbles – air pockets – lie beneath the surface of the ice he now crosses, making it weak and porous.

"Turn back!" My voice sounds forced and ragged and does not carry in a way I would wish. "The ice is unstable!" No heed is paid and he merely steps up his already thunderous pace.

The ice he is nearing is both mottled and slushy (_listed in my monograph by its common name `rotten ice_`), caused by frequent thawing and re-freezing. It is deceptive in its nature, being thick at the top but rotting away at its centre and base.

"You must stop! Spread your weight across your hands and feet - !" He turns, so briefly, but there is no slowing of his celerity as he makes his escape to the far side.

A pale shaft of morning sunlight suddenly glitters across the glittery landscape and I am able to see, a mere twenty feet ahead of him, a large, brown patch of ice, emblematic of the very worst kind of its kind. Plant tannins, dirt and other materials are resurfacing from ice that is thawing, giving the dark colour and a warning note to any foolish peregrination across such a flow…

"Siesterson! Do not take another footstep – not one more, do you hear me?!" And my voice is carried by a sudden upsurge in the breeze; I try to lift up my body, failing to ignore the sharp stabbing pain beneath my ribs and the firearm pointing in my direction (_fifty percent chance of accuracy, but I am rather a sitting target_) to make a final appeal:

"Stop!"

A strange combination of sounds are getting nearer and I actually feel the reverberations through the ice (_Scotland Yarders who clearly have no respect for Brittle Compressive Failure_). My face is once more adjacent to the surface, as my neck has failed me and all I see are black boots thumping by (_nucleation of cracks at the grain boundaries mean nothing to them_) and note, with a tiny sliver of hope, that they are carrying a ladder. Watson is now kneeling by me, his hands searching for my wounds and his face creased into a mask of fear and concern. His hands are warm –he has remembered his gloves.

"The ladder can be placed no further than the air pockets!" My shout is, it appears, a mere whisper, only to be heard by my good friend, who is reaching for gauze from his bag (_a Gladstone bag on the River Thames – how incongruous_) and frowning at me.

"You mustn't try and speak Holmes, you have been shot! Keep still, you have lost blood – "

In all the excitement, I did not notice the increase in the red ice beneath me.

"Weight must be spread across – think of the friction coefficient …" I murmur.

I see Watson glance up and frown – he thinks Siesterson has escaped, but I know he has not. A sudden and huge crack violently ruptures the icy December morning, and a distant scream is heard from almost six hundred yards away, followed instantly by a terrible and ominous splash. True horror flashes momentarily across the visage of my friend before he resumes his ministrations towards me.

"They will not risk the ladder – he is lost," he murmurs, then leans down closer to my face to hear what I whisper:

"Thick and blue, tried and true; thin and crispy, far too risky."

Watson has wrapped his greatcoat across me and a faint smile ghosts across his mouth as he lifts my head into his lap as more footsteps approach.

"Always the last word," he says.

**THE END**


	12. Sherlock Holmes and the Child

**Prompt 17: For one hour, and one hour only, Holmes is desperate for a child of his own**

_Prompt by Catherine Spark_

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><p>"<em>Innocence tinctures all things with the brightest hues."<em>

(Edward Counsel)

* * *

><p>As I stand, lost in thought, in my Sussex cottage garden, I find a full three minutes have passed within a mere moment, and I feel myself paralysed, holding my bee smoker, poised above a hive. Lately I have found I allow an all too frequent disappearance into such reveries, where my thoughts wander freely, sifting through my brain attic and flying artlessly through the decades of my mind gone by. I will oftentimes find myself standing at a window, holding forth a tea cup, or simply staring out to sea atop a cliff – thinking, revisiting, remembering …<p>

~x~

**December 1890**

_Dr John Watson writes:_

Not for many a year has a crime so captured the hearts and minds of the British public, nor so utterly consumed every waking thought and action of my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes. The Mackleton Kidnapping Case contained, dear readers, all elements of that which is most dramatic, poignant, tense and scandalous. The disappearance of young Lord Jeremy Mackleton, aged seven, heir to a mighty fortune; the sorrowful pleadings of his father, the Duke of Thorneycroft; the many imagined sightings of the young lad reported by an overly stimulated populous – all, sadly, leading to nought. A young, innocent and motherless boy had simply got up, dressed himself and disappeared into a cold winter`s night. There had been no signs of struggle or more violent abduction, just a carefully made bed and a small note, scripted in childish hand, wedged beneath a stuffed bear:

"_I have to go, papa. Do not worry about me. Please look after Benedict._

_Jeremy"_

Holmes was energised, then consumed by the case. He emerged each day, a latent, almost vibrating column of energy and purpose – cajoling, ordering, observing, exposing and deducing. His patience with Gregson and Hopkins (never profuse) wore thinner as each day dawned without finding the young Lordship. I had seen Holmes deprive himself of whole nights of sleep and whole days of food and rest when a case had clutched him within its maw, but this was unparalleled, even for a man such as he. Sleeping for the barest of half hours in an armchair (curled as a cat, ready to spring to life in an instant) he would jolt awake, stare beyond me, as if recalling some tormented vestiges of a dream, then shake his head, murmuring:

"It simply will not do, Watson – make haste, we must telegram Mr Wilder, the Duke`s secretary – "

And another bout of frenzied activity would ensue. Logic, reason, deduction – usually the most precise of the sciences – never before had I witnessed their purest of compounds tainted with the tinge of a new element – _desperation_.

Heavily shod Yarders clatter through the disused railway tunnel, just a quarter mile south of the Egham Docks, but it is Sherlock Holmes who reaches the base of the ladder first, finding the remains of a small fire, scraps of food and candle stubs. At the very back of the tiny shelter, besides the damp and fetid brick wall, he discovers a small, folded sheet of incongruously luxurious notepaper, populated with the same, spidery hand:

"_I am not here, Mr Holmes. We had to leave, and I am sorry to have troubled you. Please tell Papa not to worry, and to check that Matilda has enough oats for supper. She is a good horse and I love her._

_Jeremy"_

And, even in the dark and filthy underbelly of Industrial London Town, the smallest flicker of Gregson`s lamp was sufficient to illuminate the expression on the face of my friend. None of us felt compelled to utter a word to him for a full five minutes that followed.

**~x~**

Last night I had the dream again.

Watson imperiously insisted I take some rest, I therefore indulged him (as is often my wont) and I found I was, once again, back in my bedroom at home in East Sussex. The red gables and ancient mullioned windows; the Turkish drugget winding its way up the dark oak staircase; the various and moth-eaten animal heads mounted proudly by Squires gone by; the musty and cobwebbed garden shed where ancient jars jostled with purloined kitchen equipment and small boys determined upon ill-advised yet intricate experiments …

My room, with its gnarled and tarnished oak panelling and white stuccoed ceiling. Shelf upon shelf of books, with authors ranging from Charles Kingsley to Frederick Marryat; cheek by jowl with scientific journals suited well beyond the years of the seven year old boy who slept there. Heavy damask curtains, trimmed with faded fringing shut out even the brightest of sunny days which often suited my purpose very well, since I was that seven year old boy, and that was my room.

"Sherlock," the soft voice of my mother exemplifies the strong auditory powers of the dream-state – she sounds as real and present as she was in life – "Sherlock, why are the curtains drawn on such a perfectly charming day? A beautiful cornflower blue, my darling, with the wispiest of clouds floating by; in here you are all gloom and shadows."

My mother wears a deep claret dress and her hair is coiled in plaits around the back of her head. As she turns, I see the neat lace jabot at her neck, pinned with her favourite cameo – a gift from my father. She wore it always.

"Cirrus," I say, "those clouds, Mama – found generally at a height of 18,000 feet."

She allows the dreaded shafts of brightness to illuminate my peace and quiet (and wreak unsolicited havoc with the tadpole control group atop my desk) and turns her gentle smile upon me.

"Croquet on the lawn, Sherlock. Mycroft is waiting upon you."

I push my recently acquired (and therefore precious) litmus paper beneath a prayer book and know this is a game I shall lose, but play anyway.

"I do not favour bright sun and games with Mycroft, Mama."

And in the dream, her face is suddenly so near to mine (as dreams to not respect boundaries of time and space, I have observed) and I fancy I smell lily of the valley.

"I know, my darling, as alone is your preference."

"It is."

"It is also good to find some counsel with people too, Sherlock. One can learn much from the counsel of others."

**~x~**

_John Watson writes:_

As the third day reached its closing hours and hope was once more fading, my friend had a sudden and inspirational lead emerge from his chemical analysis of a postage sized sample of mud and brick dust.

"The Blackwall Yard, on the Isle of Dogs! Watson, we must leave immediately!"

Unfortunately, another abandoned camp met us at Blackwell, and another flash of white expensive notepaper for my friend, as evidence he had failed once more, to reach Lord Jeremy in time:

"_Good day, Mr Holmes. I know you try your best and I thank you for your kind efforts. I am quite well and not too cold at all. Please tell Papa I am safe. Is it Christmas soon? – Jeremy"_

Holmes would speak very little that night, but worked late. At breakfast, I expected more overwrought silence, but instead, he was sitting in his armchair, hands clasped beneath his chin and finger interlocked; his bright grey eyes sought mine and were oddly questioning.

"Last night, Watson, I dreamt of my first riding lesson, when I was eight years old."

Perhaps not the statement I had been expecting.

"I didn't know you were an accomplished rider, Holmes," I countered, spreading my marmalade far thicker than I ought to have.

"Truthfully, I am not, but it did not stop my dear father from maintaining some bizarre belief that one day I should be, despite all the evidence pertaining to the contrary."

"Your father was a patient man."

"Very much so, since I was not the easiest of children, wanting to be places I should not be, and resisting the childhood pastimes they had set aside for my delectation. I do recall, however, at the culmination of one disastrous lesson when I was pulled, unceremoniously from the rhododendron bushes by Harper the groom, where the long-suffering animal had caste its unwelcome passenger once more. My dear father, knelt before me as I pulled leaves and soil from my tweed collar and I determined that horses were not to be trusted, not even the best of them.

"_My dear Sherlock, you have lost your seat my boy. How do you account for that?"_

"_I can only assume the horse and human anatomy have no common points of interest, papa."_

In my dream, he smiles at me and assists in taking a petal from my hair.

"_It is not how many times you fall, Sherlock, it is how many times you get back on; you must always get back on."_

**~x~**

"Holmes, I know you will not give up with this case. Is it not so much more evocative that a child is involved?"

My friend stands and walks to the window, where his desk and the notes written by Lord Jeremy Mackleton lie atop them. Lifting one up, he holds it up to the light, perusing its meagre contents for what seems like the thousandth time.

"This is a very special child, Watson. His calligraphy shows he is a young boy who is afraid, but wishing to appear not afraid. He is new to the written word, but attempts to allay the fears of others he loves, and hopes to ensure their safety and well-being. I have been dreaming about my own childhood almost every time I have closed my eyes this week, Watson. Recollections and snippets of memory mixed with whimsy, but all pointing towards the fact that I came from a happy home – I was loved and I was taught the useful lessons of life. Memories of childhood are the dreams that stay with you after you awake, and I must insist, Watson, that Lord Jeremy has the childhood he is entitled to."

**~x~**

**Dr John Watson writes**:

The fifth day of The Mackleton Kidnapping Case proved to be the final day.

We closed in on Mr Reuben Hayes, a kidnapper hired by the Duke`s illegitimate son to further his hold on the family fortune by means of extortion and ransom demands. Holmes had deduced the physical appearance, gait and occupation of the kidnapper from assorted observations at the various sites, and Mr Hayes had emerged as a prime candidate, with a criminal past worthy of such dastardly behaviour. It was a cold, slippery December evening, a mere week away from Christmas, and frost lay thick on the greasy cobbles of the St Katharine dock yard as Holmes, myself and the Yarders scattered around its dark and unwelcoming corners. All exits had been covered and we were more confident than we had ever been that this would be the day father and son would be reunited.

Holmes held the lamp high, and I considered the illumination in his face to be only partly from its flickering light.

"Watson," he spoke in supressed energy, almost bubbling with anticipation, "you are with me – you other men, follow Gregson and remember the signal of two sharp whistles."

So much hope – the human spirit would not survive without its hand, reaching out into the darkness to aid us and pull us back from the brink.

Alas, the higher is the hope, the furthest is we have to fall.

**~x~**

The two bodies were pulled from the river almost immediately, but Sherlock Holmes would not allow the frail and vulnerable body of Lord Jeremy Mackleton to be lain in the same vicinity of his kidnapper, who`s frenzied flight from the police had led to a slippery and fatal fall into the freezing Thames waters. My friend and I knelt by the pale and fragile boy with the lion`s heart, who had been cruelly ripped from the childhood, and the life, that had belonged to him. His lips were blue and his eyes were closed and his right hand was tightly clenched, whereupon Holmes gently prised his fingers apart to expose the tiniest stub of a pencil. He then carefully felt inside the boy`s trouser pocket, pulling out a soaked, but still intact piece of white folded paper. The scrawled words were very hurriedly written and had brevity that only enhanced their poignancy:

"_Mr Holmes, I am sorry that we never met – "_

_**~x~**_

_The death of Lord Jeremy Mackleton brought forth a myriad of childhood memories that had all but been forgotten by myself (by many I suppose) in the impatient hurry that urges us on when we are growing up; aspiring to adulthood. We are sure there are better, more rewarding, more challenging and more interesting roads ahead, just awaiting our adult selves to find them. We should not, however, fail to recall what shaped us into the people we are as adults, should we be lucky enough to reach that milestone. I was lucky – I had a family who cared enough to afford me a compass I could navigate with and a confidence that the world would accept me as I was. I sat for an hour on that cold, stark evening, next to the boy who had haunted my days and my nights, and I contemplated the wonder that are parents and the bond they have with their beloved children. I did not form any words to my loyal Watson that night, since I felt my heart to be raw and exposed and did not trust my delivery, but I took the merest ghost of the idea of fatherhood and nursed it to myself; traversed it about the rooms of my brain attic and, ultimately, held it up to the stark light of truth._

_The truth then, that although poor fated Jeremy Mackleton inspired my love for a child by bringing my childhood back to me (however briefly), I did not have the resources and endless skills required to raise a boy to a man or a girl to womanhood. My choice of livelihood is essentially a selfish and all-consuming one, and my mind must be always devoted to my own chosen gift to mankind – my science and my deduction, and all that it entails._

_Jeremy, I am also so sorry that we never met._

**The End**

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><p><strong>AN:**

**I know it is late, and I know I have missed quite a few prompts, but I would just like to say (in the early hours of an English morning, the first of 2015) that this has been such a fantastic experience. I have loved reading and reviewing everyone`s astonishingly brilliant writings, and I have loved the idea of the prompts (which are entirely new to me) and their results. **

**I will not lie - the pace has been frenetic, and I have failed to do what so many of you have done, and achieved 31 days - however, I feel I have set myself a challenge for the year to come, and have learnt much from the amazing writers involved in this task. **

**This last challenge has been a tough one - Sherlock Holmes wishing he had a child?! I love it though, since it gave me the chance to push a few boundaries (thanks, Catherine Spark!) and test some waters. I truly believe that Sherlock Holmes has/had some very real emotions, but he knew he could probably resist the life of the everyman.**

**Thank you for the reviews, the reads, the comments and the favourites - all have meant much to me.**

**Until the next time,**

**Emma x**


	13. Norbury

**I`m not entirely sure if this is allowed, since the challenge is very definitely over, but I did feel a little lacking in my output, so thought I would try at least one more! Thank you for reading! - Emma **

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><p><strong><span>Norbury<span>**

_Prompt by I`m Nova_

" Where he failed, it happened too often that no-one else succeeded … now and again, however, it chanced that even when he erred, the truth was still discovered."

(The Adventure of the Yellow Face)

The small south London suburb of Norbury lies in the borough of Croydon and Merton and has several notable causes for mention in the appendices of history books. Records tell of a Manor House existing there as far back as 1229, which fell into possession of the Carews of Beddington between 1385 and 1885. The stalwart and impressive Norbury Hall was built in 1802 by John Nash, and since 1868, horse races have been held annually there, just west of the London Road, from Streatham Common station. However, the appendices of history books have yet to be troubled by the most singular and personal reason that Norbury holds a special side note in the annals of this particular biographer; it remains the most memorable (and humbling) occasion of the time that Sherlock Holmes was mistaken. Wrong. Incorrect. Not only was my friend in concurrence of the error of his deduction faculties in the case of The Yellow Face, but he made special mention of it:

"_Watson, if it should ever strike you that I am getting a little overconfident in my powers, or giving less pains to a case than it deserves, kindly whisper `Norbury` in my ear and I shall be infinitely obliged to you."_

And, dear reader, please understand that (borne only from the urgent desire to respect the wishes of my friend) I most certainly did.

**~x~**

Occasion the first –The Case of the Underestimated Woman

" – and furthermore Gregson, you will perceive that Miss Avery-Willcott could not possibly have, without access to ladder or other means of ascension, reached the shelf where the poison was stored. There is simply no evidence of furniture being moved (just faint scufflings which appear inconclusive), nor any time for her to have climbed or procured access."

"As usual, I defer to your reasoning, Mr Holmes. I shall send word to the local constabulary to release Miss Avery-Willcott immediately so that she may attend her rehearsal."

At once, I was alerted to the sudden and obvious change in my friend`s demeanour as a new thought entered his mind. Grabbing my arm was barely necessary, since his bright and frenetic stare had already gained my full attention.

"Oh good lord, Watson – what idiocy! Remind me, Gregson, this lady we are about to release back into society is currently rehearsing for a performance is she not?"

"Indeed, at Sadler`s Wells, in Covent Garden (consulting his notebook) – _La Fille Mal Gardee_, I believe they call it. One of those ballet arrangements."

Holmes was inches from smiting his own forehead as he ran towards the doorway to call back one of Gregson`s constables.

"_Ballet_, Watson, a _ballerina_!"

"I don't follow – is Miss Avery-Willcott now a suspect once more?"

"Not only that, " he turned to face me, "a _murderer_, Watson! My brain attic, fortuitously, still has room for the art form of ballet and its many complex and impressive steps and leaps … two words Watson – _Grand Jete_! The woman could leap her way to that top shelf with no artificial aid to her own skills … and to think, I nearly missed it!"

Discreetly, I neared my friend as a frenzy of activity erupted around the scene of the murder, constables and servants running hither and thither.

"Just one word, Holmes," I whispered next to his ear as I touched his shoulder.

"Norbury."

**~x~**

Occasion the Second – The Case of The Missing Mountain

"And nothing was disturbed?" Sherlock Holmes peered intently at the painting with his lens subsequent to a very detailed and lengthy physical examination with his gloved hands.

"No, sir. The window locks intact and no sign of a break in. The painting was just leaning against this wall when the curator unlocked the gallery at nine o`clock last Wednesday morning. Experts have been studying it since then – it seems that it is indeed a lost _Finilini_."

Giuseppe Finilini, a rumoured protégé of Da Vinci himself; a tortured recluse who hid himself away, despising his enormous talent and infamously destroying most of his works in a fit of self-loathing before committing suicide at the age of twenty six. The art world had held onto its belief of a hidden Finilini masterpiece escaping the fire, and rumours had circulated for centuries regarding its whereabouts and beauty. No physical evidence existed bar the suggestion of a title, and yet here it was, `_La luce del sole in montagna_` (Sunlight on the mountain`), mysteriously and casually leaning against the wall of the art gallery belonging to Lord Peter Suchet, art collector.

"The paint is extremely authentic," commented Holmes, since he had been permitted a sample to analyse by the art historians who had been been employed by the Yard. "The chemical compounds include many plants found in this part of Italy, and the wax used has an authenticity to the period. Both myself and Christie`s have very little doubt as to it`s authenticity, all that remains is to ascertain the reason it has been placed here, and by whom."

I allowed the brief lull in everyone else`s ministrations to lend me the opportunity to study the painting. Indeed, the quality of the light reflecting across the planes of a mountain range denuded by erosion and volcanic activity had an incandescent beauty I had never before encountered. The work appeared to actually glow with the deepening warmth of a sun that was several centuries younger. The artist had truly captured the Italian landscape and flora, with such attention to detail as to allow the glint of a single olive on a branch to catch the light of a sinking sun.

As used as I was to Holmes`s odd hours and irregular behaviour regarding the necessity of bed and nutrition, I was nevertheless startled into consciousness to find him standing, fully dressed and agitated at the foot of my bed. Glancing at my clock, my bleary vision cleared, but my indignation did not.

"Half past three, Holmes! What on earth is the matter?"

"I have been duped, Watson – we all have been sucked into a web of forgery and deceit, enticed by the over-zealous excitement of finding a hidden masterpiece."

"The Finilini? But you were so sure it was original."

Holmes, by way of answer, threw a weighty tome onto my legs, turning up the gas at the same time. It is with everlasting pride that I commented on neither inconsiderate action.

"Page four hundred and seventeen of `_The Mountain Ranges of Southern Italy_` shows the mountain range depicted by this painting quite nicely."

I turned the pages labouriously and, sure enough, there was the _Betulesci _Mountain range, sketched in pen and ink next to an authentic looking recent photograph.

"It seems you have found the correct range, Holmes. These are identical to those in the painting, even down to the mountain in the middle which has lost its summit due to a volcanic eruption."

Holmes sighed and raked an impatient hand through his hair.

"Look at the footnote."

Squinting, I read:

`_The highest of the Betulesci peaks was decimated by a cataclysmic eruption in January 1782 which changed the look of the range beyond recognition.`_

I looked up at my friend as a rather insistent thought began to slowly nudge at my sleep-addled brain.

"How could an artist who killed himself in 1499 paint a volcano that erupted for the first and only time almost three hundred years later. Had this been an authentic Finilini, the mountain would have been whole, as it had been in his day. I have been most remiss and am sending a telegram to Lestrade within the next five minutes, insisting upon the arrest of Lord Suchet and his forger."

I was agog, and felt a stab of pity at my friend as he sat heavily upon my counterpane with a sigh.

Pity, yes, but I firstly had an obligation to fulfil.

"A word for me, Watson? I observe you almost _bristling_ with intent."

And _Norbury_ hung in the air, unsaid but as real as the light from a recently extinguised candle.

**~x~**

Occasion the Third: The Case of The Blushing Detective

January had blustered forth, a cold, damp and rather laconic start to the year, rather matching the mood of my friend, Sherlock Holmes. Cases had seemingly suffered from what he often referred to as the `_post-Christmas lull_`, whereby criminals appeared too involved in their festivities to bother with crime – for a few weeks at least, and resentful inactivity haunted our Baker Street rooms. Thus, after three mornings of finding him languishing in his fawn dressing gown, contemplating my army pistol and its potential for indoor target practise, I was cheered immensely to find him up and fully dressed, bustling around industriously.

"You have a case – at last!"

"A logical deduction, Watson, but a slightly inaccurate one, I am afraid. I have not been engaged officially on a case, but I have enlisted my own help, since I have observed some rather odd occurrences which simply beg to be investigated."

He pulled out a pair of binoculars from beneath a pile of papers and examined their strength by peering out of the window.

"I take it there will be some leg-work then – some watching of the parties involved, without their knowledge, perhaps?"

Holmes shrugged on his coat and secreted the binoculars into its inner pocket, patting it with a smile.

"I truly enjoy your speculations, Watson – as close to observation and deduction than you may hope to achieve. Are you yourself occupied this morning (I rather favour the idea that you are not since I am more than acquainted with your surgery hours and the obliging nature of your locum), as I would appreciate some company on this little mission."

"Indeed, I can be of service. Which ill-fated individual is to be the subject of your investigation? Anyone I am acquainted with?"

"Someone we both know and who also has the rather dubious pleasure of being related to me."

"Surely, you don`t mean – "

"Mycroft has been behaving most oddly (even for him) and I suspect there are dealings which he wishes to keep from me. This is something Watson, that must not be allowed to continue," he added as we both cantered down the stairs to hail a cab.

It appeared that Mycroft Holmes had, of late, altered his habits quite substantially, which (according to his younger brother) was akin to a tram-car altering its course along the streets of London.

"It first caught my interest when he left behind his cane, causing me to send Billy along the road to return it. He had informed me of his intent to visit the Diogenes Club (as he does every Wednesday during the winter months) but instead, was discovered by our loyal Page to be visiting several establishments – "

"What kind of establishments?"

"Fortescue`s Wine Merchants on Northumberland Street; Deveres Confectioners on Marylebone Terrace and Linklater`s Domestic Employment Agency on Carliol Square. These, my dear fellow, are not the errands my dear brother would ever undertake himself unless something very secretive and underhand was afoot. He has `people` to deal with such menial detritus."

"And he made no mention during his visit?"

"He went out of his way to mention how busy he would be over the next few weeks, hence the oddity of such a shopping trip."

Holmes had amused himself for several hours the previous day tracing his brother`s footsteps and attempting to glean information from shop assistants and clerks, all to no avail.

"There is no reason a clerk should be so secretive regarding such a seemingly innocent visit; I tell you, Watson, there is a plot to be uncovered and a veil of secrets to be drawn back from my brother`s clandestine habits."

His glee was testimony to the extreme boredom of the festive season and its restrictive nature regarding potential cases and so I decided to humour him in his quest. Yet, Sherlock Holmes misses very little.

"Ah, you disapprove, Watson, I can see your cogitations regarding such apparent childishness – but I know my brother like I know _ash_, and _I will_ find out what he`s up to."

**~x~**

By dusk, we had discovered Mycroft taking a brief turn around Richmond Park, with very little `evidence` of strange behaviour, apart from some solicitous pigeon feeding; he took a hansom at four in the afternoon to visit his tailor and met with several colleagues at Simpson`s in the Strand for an early supper. Holmes was disgruntled and disappointed, but apparently not enough to desist from spying on his brother the whole next day (without my help, since I was needed at my practice). By Friday, he had very little to show for his efforts, but remained convinced Mycroft was planning something secretly.

"Three deliveries of silver and glassware this morning, Watson, yet he will not acknowledge hosting an event of any kind."

My silent disapproval remained hidden behind my newspaper and I was utterly relieved to hear the doorbell and the arrival of Billy with a telegram – hopefully a case to distract this current obsession.

"Ah, at last!" Holmes clapped his hands together happily. "One of my Baker Street Irregulars has word of a robbery planned to take place tonight. It seems some very well adorned and wealthy ladies are to be relieved of their jewellery on Eaton Square – let`s be there, Watson, and thwart some very ungentlemanly behaviour before they can make any such demands."

Lestrade and several Yarders were also alerted to rendezvous with us at Halworth House on Eaton Square on the dot of eight. Anticipating quite a number of rogues to be involved in the caper, I slipped my revolver into my pocket and I noted Holmes had his single-stick in his hand.

The beautiful Georgian edifice of Halworth was glamorously lit in the dark January evening, its luxurious glow almost an invitation to any footpad with the area with criminal intent. We took the side entrance but the building seemed overly quiet and subdued, considering a function was obviously scheduled. We made our way discreetly along a gleaming parquet corridor towards the ballroom and I felt the comforting weight of my gun within my jacket.

"Where is Lestrade?" Whispered my friend as his hand touched the golden door handle, "I expressly asked him to be punctual – "

And punctual he actually was.

As were Gregson, Hopkins, Mrs Hudson, most of the Irregulars, assorted well-dressed ladies and gentlemen whom I recognised as ex-clients from years gone by, and in amongst them all, raising a champagne flute mid-toast and looking as vainglorious as it was possible to be, stood the portly form of Mycroft Holmes.

"Ah, Sherlock, so pleased you could join us, since the party would not have been complete without its guest of honour. I have so enjoyed leading my shadow over the past week, but you didn't quite see the very obvious fact right in front of you."

Sherlock Holmes was rendered utterly speechless as the assembled guests also raised their glasses in toast, to all the world as if they had been expecting him – which, of course, they had.

"Happy birthday, Sherlock," continued Mycroft Holmes, enjoying himself immensely, "I always said I would catch you in the end."

"Happy birthday!" echoed everyone, as Lestrade shoved a glass into Holmes`s hand.

"I have no words, Watson," he whispered, still reeling, but furiously attempting to disguise it.

"I have _one_ word for you," I whispered back, and he simply shook his head in rueful acceptance.

**THE END**


End file.
